


Through the Grapevine

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-21
Updated: 2008-04-18
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: AU. Post-DH. Tricked into falling through the veil, Harry finds himself in an alternate dimension where the First War continues to rage and the people he thought he lost are alive and well, Sirius from his own dimension included. Harry thought killing Voldemort would take a matter of days this time. He was wrong. H/G.





	1. The Mouse and the Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**Title:** Through the Grapevine  
 **Author Name:** Master Slytherin  
 **Rating** T  
 **Genre:** Action/Suspense  
 **Era:** Halloween 1981 onwards  
 **Main Character:** Harry, Sirius, Ginny, Lily, Narcissa, Tonks  
 **Ship:** H/G  
 **Summary:** AU. Post-DH. Tricked into falling through the veil, Harry finds himself in an alternate dimension where the First War continues to rage and the people he thought he lost are alive and well, Sirius from his own dimension included. Harry thought killing Voldemort would take a matter of days this time. He was wrong.  
 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. The disclaimer covers all chapters.  
 **Thanks to:** Apocalypso-33 (my muse), Taure, IP82, Japanese-Jew, Le Rob, Levi.

* * *

**Chapter I** **– The Mouse and the Trap**

Life was good for David Marsh. His best friend from school, Timothy Lovejoy, had finally managed to bring about the promotion he had always wanted. Now he sat in a room almost every wizard wanted to look inside – the locked room in the Department of Mysteries. The Head office.

The room could only be described as anticlimactic. Sure, his immense leather chair was remarkable comfortable, so much so that he could doze off in it. True, his sweeping, mahogany, spell-proof table was a luxury that only the Minister could boast. Yes, the wall behind him was in fact a sweeping window that overlooked a beautiful beach with perpetual sunshine pouring in. However, he could not shake his deep, inexplicable feeling of antipathy towards the office – he sometimes felt he did not belong there. He had assured himself he would become accustomed to the room, or else continue using his old office in the Hall of Prophecies.

The fire flashed green and a red memo appeared from its dying embers. Marsh stood up as if his chair had caught fire. He reached an arm out and snatched the memo from the air. Red meant urgent. And there were very few wizards who could send him a red memo directly – namely the other six Head of Departments, Senior Undersecretary Lovejoy and the Minister himself. The Minister’s Council.

As he prised open the memo, he recognised the almost robotic handwriting instantly. It belonged to Lovejoy:

_My office ASAP._

Marsh let the memo slip from his hand. It hung in the air for the slightest moment before bursting into flame, its ashes littering the otherwise spotless carpet. As the final particles of ash were laid to rest, Marsh was already at the fire, a handful of Floo Powder in his hand.

What would Lovejoy want so early in the morning? It had to be something of utmost importance for he, Marsh, to be called out of the Department. Had Shacklebolt called an emergency Council meeting? Had Harry bloody Potter made yet another high profile arrest?

Marsh flung the powder into the fire, turning it emerald green. ‘Urgent’ meant using the Floo to move between offices. He only hoped one of his bright new recruits didn’t blow up the Department while he was away. He stepped into the fireplace.

“Lovejoy’s office!”

* * *

Harry sat, almost horizontal, on the couch, his feet resting on the coffee table in front of him. Sunlight filtered in through the translucent silk curtains. Darker, thicker curtains, more beige than orange, framed the windows and from his vantage point, Harry could see the pulley system that opened and closed them. Opposite him was his pride and joy – not as some may have thought, his and Ginny’s wedding portrait, but the forty-two inch television screen that Harry had recently bought and mounted on the beige wall.

In one hand, Harry held the remote control and was flicking through hundreds of channels, and in the other was a family-size pack of tangy cheese Doritos. Finally, Harry found the channel he wanted – the one showing the England game. He cursed – he had missed most of the match and England were a goal down to Slovakia of all teams.

“I hate Dean, you know that?”

Harry reluctantly tore his eyes from the screen to the living room door where Ginny stood, her hands on her hips. Despite it being summer, she was wearing green robes and her favourite golden necklace. Her wand was behind her ear, a habit she had picked up from Luna, and her flaming red hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. Were they meant to be going out? At that moment, Harry only cared for football, a love he had picked up from Dean a few years ago.

“Yeah…” mumbled Harry, turning back to the television.

Gerrard, England’s talisman midfielder, had flitted the ball through to Owen, a short striker, who had turned his marker. Only one defender stood between he and the goal. Harry leaned forward. Owen wrong-footed the last defender, leaving only the goalkeeper in his way. Harry raised his arms expectantly. No! The beaten defender had tackled Owen from behind and brought him down.

“Penalty!” yelled Harry.

“Harry!”

Not taking his eyes off the screen, Harry said, “one minute, honey. That cheating scum’s got to get a red!”

The referee, who had been swarmed by England players, pointed to the spot before giving the offending defender a yellow card. Harry spotted some movement from the corner of his eye and instinctively looked. Ginny was now wearing only a lacy bikini, green as her robes. Harry weighed up his options. There was only one winner; he turned back to the television, where Owen had placed the ball on the penalty spot.

“Owen has got to slot this one away,” the commentator was saying, “not like the one he hit over the bar for Liverpool at the weekend. The weight of the nation is on his shoulders.”

Harry tossed his packet of Doritos aside, a testament to the importance of the penalty. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, his chin resting on the bridge of his knuckles. Owen took three steps back from the ball and looked up at the goal.

“Come on Owen,” mumbled Harry.

“Come on Owen,” said the commentator, throwing neutrality to the wind.

Owen ran up and hit the ball straight down the middle. The Slovakian goalkeeper committed to a spectacular dive to his right. The net rippled.

“Yes!” Harry cried.

“Yes!” cried the commentator.

Harry jumped to his feet and punched the air with his fist. He only wished Dean or Ron was with him. His euphoria was short-lived; Ginny had managed to switch off the television.

Harry gaped. “Listen, Gin,” he said, looking around for the remote, “I know you don’t understand football, but you’ve _got_ to put the TV back on. If we win this, we’ve got a foot in the finals.”

Ginny merely shook her head. “This is the first day in _weeks_ that we’ve both got a day off and I’m not letting bloody football ruin it.”

“There’s only ten minutes left!”

“We’ve got a table at _Il Bordello_ in five minutes.”

“What?” Harry regained his composure. “Err…we can make it in three.”

“Not dressed like that,” said Ginny, brandishing the remote at him.

Harry glanced down at his clothes. He was wearing a bright red England top populated by crumbs. His boxers were peeking through the hem of the t-shirt. He hid a smile and picked his wand up from the coffee table. A quick Switching Spell later and his ‘slob clothes’, as Ginny called them, were gone, replaced by an expensive black robe lined with red.

“Happy?”

“Much better,” said Ginny, smiling now. “Let’s go.”

Harry sighed in defeat. There were always the game highlights on ‘Match of the Day’. He summoned the car keys and followed Ginny out of the living room, through the narrow corridor and into the hall. All along the corridor were small, unmoving portraits of those he refused to forget. His parents. Sirius. Dumbledore. Mad-Eye. Hedwig. Dobby. Fred. Remus. Tonks. People always felt uncomfortable walking down the corridor, but neither he nor Ginny cared. If they didn’t remember their loved ones, who would?

The door opened on to a paved drive. Opposite their semi-detached home was a hall of residence belonging to the local London University. Harry’s fame meant they could never live in a wizarding area. At least, not until he retired.

He shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced up and down the small road. None of the neighbours were around – judging by the number of empty drives, they had decided to make use of the sunshine.

“They’re good about privacy,” said Ginny as Harry locked the front door behind him.

“What?”

“The restaurant,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes, “they said they’re good at making sure you’re not disturbed. Not that they need to do anything with weather like this – everyone’ll be at the beach, hopefully.”

“Hopefully.”

Harry unlocked his car, a silver Ford Mondeo, and got into the driver’s seat, while Ginny jumped in the passenger’s side.

“I really don’t understand why we need all these precautions,” said Ginny. “Most of the Death Eaters are locked up in Azkaban now; I’m sure we can take off the Anti-Apparition wards at least.”

“Yes, _most_ of them are in Azkaban. Once I’m sure _all_ of them are locked up, I’ll have Bill bring the wards down.” Harry smiled, making sure Ginny had locked her door all the while. “Until then, this is our only Apparition point. Constant vigilance!”

“And I thought Mad-Eye was paranoid…”

“Great man, Mad-Eye; best Auror the Department ever saw.”

“Kingsley would say otherwise.”

“Well, Kingsley needs to get himself out of my arse and see the light of day once in a while.”

Ginny giggled. “And they say _I’m_ the snarky one.”

When he was sure the car was secure and there were no Muggles watching, he placed the keys in the glove compartment, took Ginny’s hand and Apparated away.

A split second later, he and Ginny appeared, hand in hand, in one of the side-streets in the village of Hogsmeade. The cobbled street was utterly deserted; all that could be heard were birds chirping and a faint buzz of noise, probably from the Three Broomsticks. Almost subconsciously, Harry scanned the road for any suspicious activity, as well as possible avenues of escape if wizarding transportation was cut off.

“I’m quite sure You-Know-Who isn’t two doors down,” said Ginny, tugging lightly at his arm.

“You do realise he’s not going to rise from the dead and kill you for using his real name, don’t you?”

Ginny ignored him and opened the door. It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes as he followed her in. As soon as he stepped through the wooden doors, he wished he hadn’t.

The establishment itself was nice enough. It wasn’t so small that they were better off in their own living room, but not so large that they would be waiting hours for their food. The décor, too, was almost exactly what Harry liked – the restaurant had employed a successful red and white colour scheme. No, what he hated was the fact that it was almost full with diners, most of whom were now glancing at him in a manner that they probably hoped was surreptitious.

“So much for privacy,” mumbled Harry as a wide-eyed House Elf approached them.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” squeaked the House-elf, bowing low, “but Drulm is wondering whether you is Harry Potter, sir.”

“Yes I am.”

The House Elf’s eyes were now so wide Harry would not have been surprised if they equalled the palm of his hand in size.

“Is you wanting the window table still, sir?”

“Err, yeah.”

“This way, sir and miss.”

The House Elf led them with an air of pride that had Ginny red with laughter. Harry may have joined her if almost every eye in the restaurant wasn’t following them to their surprisingly welcoming red table for two; it was already laid out, menus and all. Harry sat beside a window that looked over another cobbled street.

“Thanks, Drulm.” The poor House Elf looked as though he would die from happiness.

“Harry Potter is too kind and too great, sir!” Drulm bowed so low his long nose touched the white carpet and all Harry could see was the few wispy grey hairs that populated the top of his head.

When Drulm left, Ginny burst into a fresh wave of infectious laughter. Soon they were both shaking with silent laughter, and Harry could feel more eyes turning towards them. Finally, Ginny hid behind her menu and the laughter died away.

Harry did a quick sweep of the restaurant. As he had guessed, all eyes were on him – all except one couple. They were sat in the far corner of the room staring, almost pointedly, away from Harry and Ginny’s table. The man was wearing a worn black cloak that did little to hide his huge size. The cloak suggested that he would not be able to afford the extortionate restaurant prices aimed at well-to-do Ministry families. In stark contrast, the extraordinarily busty woman was wearing a low-cut red robe that hugged her slim figure. Ron would have gone mad for her, before he fell for Hermione. The man said something to the woman. Instantly, she looked over at Harry, almost suggestively.

Harry looked away and decided to watch out for the couple, if they were indeed a couple. While he was no longer in as much danger as he had been in the two or three years following Voldemort’s death, there were still plenty of wizards who would love to see him dead.

“What are you having, then?” said Ginny, still peering at her menu.

“Dunno, found anything good?”

“Says here their lasagne’s the best in Britain.”

“Let’s see if there’s any truth in that, then,” said Harry, putting his menu on the golden platter. Almost instantly, it disappeared and a white, flower embroidered plate appeared in a frame created by the knife, fork and spoon. Slightly to the right, a goblet appeared, almost identical in pattern to the plate. Harry lowered his head so he could see his reflection in the plate. Resisting the urge to flatten his messy fringe, he said, “Meat lasagne and Butterbeer, please.” Ginny ordered the same.

They had agreed many years ago that they would never order starters – they were a waste of time and money. That and Harry’s small appetite meant he could never finish the main course otherwise. The time he had committed to his career meant he had skipped more than his fair share of meals.

“That House Elf looks _exactly_ like the team’s new one,” said Ginny.

“I still don’t understand why a Quidditch team needs a House Elf.”

“Who else is going to clean up after us?”

“You’re a team of women! We’re meant to be the slobby, dirty ones, remember?”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Oh! Before I forget, Andromeda wants us to babysit Teddy for her this weekend.”

Harry furrowed his eyebrows. “I don’t get why she doesn’t just let him move in with us and be done with it. He’s six now, isn’t he? Just about old enough to be taught some Muggle stuff…”

Ginny sighed. “We’ve been through this, Harry. One, Andromeda’s his _grandma_ , you’re just his godfather-”

“He’s Lupin’s son,” said Harry firmly, “which makes him my son, too. And Dromeda was Sirius’ favourite cousin – you know I’d be more than happy for her to move in as well…”

“Second,” said Ginny, a little more sympathetically, “we both work eighty-hour weeks. This is your first day off in _months_. How on earth can we raise Teddy if we’re not even in the house?”

“I can quit if I have to; it’s not like we need the money…”

Ginny snorted. “Come _on_ , Harry, we both know you won’t be able to stand being away from the office for more than a few days. Especially not now you’re so close to making Head. Last but not least, you’re not going to corrupt that poor child with that horrible television!”

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I just feel like I haven’t done enough for him – I’m meant to be his godfather, for God’s sake! You’d think that I of all people would be with him rather than selfishly spending day and night at the office, you know?”

Ginny reached out and took his hand in hers, stroking it as she did so. He loved it when she did that – it soothed him. “Look at me, Harry.” He looked up and met her bright brown eyes. “You’re a fantastic godfather. None of my brothers saw or loved their godfathers anywhere near as much as Teddy sees and loves you.”

“What about your godfather?”

“Haven’t I told you?” said Ginny, a little surprised. “My uncle Gideon was meant to be my godfather…he died before I was born.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Potter, sir, but can I have a word?”

Harry gritted his teeth as he reluctantly turned away from Ginny, who tutted irritably and pulled her hands away. A young witch with jet black hair and half-moon glasses stood by the table, blocking the suspicious couple from view. She held a quill and parchment ready in her trembling hands.

“I’m sorry,” said Harry monotonously, “but I don’t give interviews outside of work.”

“This is about your recent capture of Amycus Carrow.”

“Listen, Miss…?”

“Miller, Jane Miller, sir. From the _Daily Prophet_.”

“Listen, Miss. Miller. I’m under vows of secrecy, as you should well know. When Head Auror Robards deems the time right, he’ll call a press conference. I’ll answer your questions then.”

Miller’s shoulders sagged. She mumbled her dejected thanks and left.

“You’re way too nice to those pests,” muttered Ginny.

“We all make a living in different ways.”

“I mean, the sports writers at the _Daily Prophet_ are absolutely fantastic.”

“It does help that the Sports Editor’s a feminist,” said Harry with a smirk.

“Excuse me, Mr. Potter.” Harry bit his lip to stop himself snarling with anger. His anger melted when he realised that the speaker was a ten year-old child with blonde hair and angelic features. Harry looked up and pin-pointed her family – a mother, father and older brother, all blonde.

“Yes?”

“Can you sign this for me, please?”

She held out a black and white photograph of Harry, taken the day after he had defeated Voldemort. It was the only photograph he willingly posed for, and only did so because the original batch was auctioned off to raise money for those affected by the war.

He shared a look with Ginny then said, “Sure.” He took the photo and a quill from her. “What’s your name?”

“Penelope.”

“To Penelope,” said Harry, reading aloud as he wrote. “Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. Yours, Harry.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Penelope, handling the photograph as if it were her baby sister.

“That’s for you to work out,” said Harry, smiling.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Potter.” Penelope curtsied before skipping over to her table happily.

“ _Way_ too nice,” said Ginny, rolling her eyes. “And when the hell is this food going to come?”

“Erm, Miss. Weasley?”

Penelope’s brother, probably spurred on by his sister’s success had come over. Ginny’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ve been Mrs. Potter for a year now,” she snapped.

“Err, sorry,” he said. “But could you sign this photo for me, please?”

Ginny exchanged an exasperated look with Harry, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Alright,” she mumbled, “just this once.”

Ginny took a photo and quill from the boy, who could not keep his eyes off her, specifically her breasts. Harry tapped the boy’s wrist and discreetly motioned for him to keep his eyes on Ginny’s face. The boy jumped and his face went almost as red as the walls.

Harry, satisfied, turned his gaze to the photo Ginny had just lazily scribbled her signature on. This one was in colour. A team of seven women were flying triumphantly across a Quidditch field, one of whom was holding a cup aloft. The words ‘Holyhead Harpies’ appeared in neon pink at the top of the photo.

“Thanks, Mrs. Potter!” said the boy breathlessly, and went back to his family’s table.

“One more interruption and I _will_ resort to violence,” snapped Ginny.

As if deliberately looking to annoy Ginny, the busty woman with the low-cut red dress came over.

Before she spoke, Ginny said, “We’re trying to enjoy a _private_ meal here. Go away.”

Harry was torn between surprise and bemusement. Surprise won out when the women replied with, “No, I won’t go away. I only came for an autograph.” She leaned into him so her breasts were practically under his nose. He held his breath, unable to handle the nauseous perfume. “Care to sign?”

“Right, that’s it, you filthy whore!” The scraping of her chair told Harry that Ginny had stood up. He, however, was too busy backing away from the impossibly large breasts.

“Is there a problem here?”

The women backed away from him, the breasts with her. As his vision returned, he saw that her burly partner had come over. He looked like he was in his late thirties. While his small eyes seemed menacing, the lack of cuts and bruises told Harry he was not a fighter.

“He called me a filthy whore!” cried the woman.

“You dirty liar!” spat Ginny.

“Did you call my sister a filthy whore, boy?”

Harry stood his ground calmly. He had seen the type before – all talk, no skill to back it up. “Judging by her actions, it’s the only conclusion I can draw.”

The burly man rolled up his sleeves. Harry swept his eyes across the restaurant. He did not want to break furniture – broken furniture meant the owner would start thinking about his insurance, and when he did, he would place the blame on the wealthier of the two to make sure his losses were recouped. And that meant Harry.

“Let’s resolve this outside, shall we?” said Harry. “Ginny, save our table.” Ginny looked ready to argue so Harry muttered, “don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

The man and woman filed out, one after the other with Harry following. The other customers shrank away from them, whispering behind their hands once all three had passed.

Five wizards were waiting for Harry outside. The woman was nowhere to be seen. Harry measured the men up. Any five men had a ringleader, two enthusiastic followers and two reluctant followers. Take the ringleader and the keen sidekicks out of the equation and it was game over. That was one of the first lessons Harry had learnt in the Academy. There’s no such thing as a five-on-one.

_Rule one, be on your feet and ready._

_Rule two, use your environment._

Harry drew his wand and counted on the five men hesitating. His fame was good for ensuring him an extra three seconds in any given duel. Even the steeliest of men lost their cool when faced with the _Chosen One._

_Rule three, t_ _he Ringleader may not be the fastest, the strongest, or the smartest looking, but he is always the first one to move._

As expected, the burly man from the restaurant stepped forward a pace and the others fell behind him in an arrowhead formation. So the enthusiastic followers were the ones directly behind the ringleader.

_Rule_ _four, never back off._

Harry took a step forward of his own but did not adopt a duelling stance. This always put wizards off their stride, especially the arrogant ones who had spent years perfecting their own.

The burly wizard hesitated once more, but Harry did not strike. It was up to the ringleader to make the first move or Harry would have to answer to Robards.

_Rule_ _five, assess and evaluate._

The burly wizard was not going to prove a problem, that much was evident. Skilled duellers _never_ hesitated more than once. They were out of the blocks with a powerful curse. He wasn’t a killer, either – assassins didn’t do confrontations. The first Harry would see of them, they’d be illuminated by the Killing Curse. No, Harry put the man in the ‘average Joe’ category. His inventory would be limited, his movement minimal at best. He would begin with a Bludgeoning Hex. That was Harry’s best guess.

And Harry was right.

The burly wizard had made a grave error – he had shot a spell Harry was expecting.

Harry waited for the last minute, when the curse was within arm’s reach, when the burly wizard thought he’d won. At that precise moment, Harry raised a shield then muttered, “ _Lumos Maxima!”_

The burly wizard, blinded by the light, was taken down by his own deflected curse. Harry stunned him as he fell.

_Rule_ _six, safety first._

“ _Expecto Patronum!”_ cried Harry, thinking of his and Ginny’s wedding just under a year ago.

Prongs rode out, large and impressive as ever. He charged at the next two, who were not nearly as large as the ringleader, but certainly weren’t small either. Their eyes were wide with fear as Prongs hurtled towards them, antlers down. Harry smiled and stunned them in quick succession.

Then it was over, because the last two guys Apparated away. The last two always do.

_Rule_ _seven, identify fallen assailants._

Harry reluctantly banished Prongs and approached the unconscious form of the ringleader. He picked up the man’s wand. Eleven inches. Beech. Probably dragon heartstring. A thug’s wand.

Harry put his hand into the man’s cloak pocket and emerged with a handful of Muggle passports. Each was from a different country, each had a different name for the same man. Intrigued, Harry raised the man’s arm, searching for his license to Apparate. The tiny black ‘A’ tattoo was missing from his wrist, however.

“Auror Potter!”

Harry dropped the man’s arm and turned around. Ron had appeared, dressed in his red Auror apparel, flanked by Marcus Savage and Anthony Williamson, both reliable men.

“Ginny call you?” asked Harry.

Ron nodded. “What’s the situation?” He approached the ringleader while Savage and Williamson took an enthusiastic follower each.

“An ambush. Five on one. This one’s the ringleader.” Harry nudged the burly man’s unconscious body with his foot.

“The two cowardly ones fled, then?” he said, smiling grimly.

“It was all standard. Their objective wasn’t death, however. They were amateur and very sloppy. This one fired a Bludgeoning Hex. The other two didn’t even manage a spell. Our primary objective is to find out who the hell these guys are. I found false Muggle passports but no Apparition license. I want all three of their names within the hour.”

“Savage,” called Ron, examining each passport. “Are you taking all of this down?”

“Yes, sir!”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Savage, the taller of the two Aurors, had a Quick Quotes Quill scribbling furiously at a floating piece of parchment.

“I want the IMC to check these passports out,” continued Harry. “I want to know when this guy travelled, where he travelled from and which airports he used. I want some of the MT guys to find the two cowards that got away, as well as checking the last time this guy travelled by Floo, broom, Portkey, everything.” Harry moved on to the other two. “Ditto with these idiots. I want the ringleader hauled in for questioning and the other two used as leverage. If there’s no tie, chuck them into a Ministry cell.”

Harry turned around so he was facing Ron. “Basically, I want to know why they were here, what they wanted to achieve, and most importantly of all, who sent them. When I get into my office tomorrow afternoon, there better be a nice report waiting there for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my beautiful wife and the best lasagne in the country are both waiting for me.”

Savage and Williamson nodded and jumped into action, searching the sidekicks thoroughly. Ron smirked and, as Harry walked by him, muttered, “Hermione’s putting on a little dinner tonight at eight.”

“We’ll be there,” said Harry, patting Ron on the back.

With that, he retreated back into the restaurant, hoping that Hermione’s dinner did not get in the way of the football highlights.

* * *

Marsh found Lovejoy sitting back at his table, stroking that black cat he had always hated, the shadow from the velvet curtains making his face difficult to see.

“You called?” said Marsh.

“Sit.”

Marsh took one of the armchairs opposite Lovejoy.

“What’s wrong?” tried Marsh.

“The Minister has informed me that he will announce his resignation to the Council in two days time. In a week, he will announce it to the nation. In light of Potter’s capture of Carrow, no other can hope to match his popularity.”

“I’ve looked into this,” said Marsh. “Reliable sources have informed me that Potter has absolutely no Ministerial ambitions. He is far more content to work towards becoming the Head of the Auror Department.”

The cat purred.

“But will he be able to overcome the inevitable wave of support from the public? When he is approached by the Wizengamot, will he say no?”

“With all due respect, I believe he will.”

“And who then is next in line?”

“Surely you would be,” said Marsh, raising an eyebrow.

“It would be a direct contest between Robards and I. Do you honestly believe that Potter would keep out of that? If Robards became Minister, who then would head the Aurors?”

“I see where you’re coming from. Potter will, when asked, endorse his superior. What do you suggest? The veil?”

“We must move our pieces more quickly. My sources have informed me that Potter overcame the men we hired with ease, as expected. He will launch a full investigation but ultimately find that the true perpetrators are a clan of Vampires from Hungary. He will be suspicious by about noon. That’s when I want the Muggles murdered.”

Marsh breathed in sharply. “Tomorrow? There’s no way I can hire someone by then.”

“You don’t need to.”

Marsh shifted uneasily in his seat. “I dunno, Tim…”

“Head of the Department of Mysteries,” murmured Lovejoy. “Have you forgotten how you got the job already?”

“No, but _murder_ …”

“Do you not remember our little gap year after Hogwarts?”

Marsh shuddered. He was poor and desperate to travel the world with Lovejoy. In his desperation, he had killed for money. “That was different…”

“Murder is murder in the eyes of the law,” said Lovejoy coldly. He moved into the light so Marsh could see his electric blue eyes.

Marsh sighed. So it was blackmail, was it? “Fine. I hope you don’t forget this when you’re deciding on Wizengamot seats a few years down the line.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. So I want three AKs, a pause, then one miss. The target is still the King’s Cross area. Potter will lead the investigation – Muggle killings are his thing. He’ll be meticulous, no doubt about it. You’ll leave behind a few things that identify you as a Ministry wizard. He’ll try and account for every Ministry wizard from the Minister down. There’ll be two names missing from his list, but he’ll hesitate. That gives us enough time to get the veil ready.

“He’ll come to me first – he’ll only go to your department as a last resort. I’ll spin him a tale then lead him to the veil room. The rest will be history.”

Marsh frowned. He hated Potter as much as most of his department – after all, he had a monopoly on any Ministry glory. The Department worked day and night on new inventions; Potter uses them once and catches Dark wizards. The press swarm him. No mention is given to the Department. But killing him?

“I will snap into action and order the veil to be destroyed. The Wizengamot will love me – Potter’ll be the second ancient family heir to die at its hands. The public will love me – it will be like Crouch locking up the Lestranges all over again, but better. I’ll even orchestrate a public funeral and give his wife a windfall in compensation. Then, on a wave of goodwill, I will trounce Robards in the Wizengamot vote and enter office.”

Lovejoy leaned back again, the shadow once again covering his face.

“And best of all, it will be Potter’s own talent that kills him. He’ll finally join his godfather.”

* * *

**AN:** I would genuinely appreciate your review. It only takes a second, and it both inspires me to write and helps to improve my writing. Plus, I try and reply to **every** review. So it’s a mutually beneficial process. Go on. Click the review button. You know you want to :P


	2. Murder, He Wrote

**Chapter II** **– Murder, He Wrote**

Thursday. Lunchtime. Maybe the hardest time to move, unnoticed, through King’s Cross. Or perhaps the easiest. Because at noon, the City’s bankers, lawyers, insurers and managers are released for their one hour break.

So as Marsh stepped out from the station, it was immediately evident that there were two types of person. The businessmen who knew exactly where they were going, head down and focussed and the tourists who were craning their necks, looking for landmarks to guide them.

_Assess and evaluate._

The rules for the Auror applied to the assassin. He had found that out at nineteen.

The sun was high in the sky, but slightly to the west. He wanted it behind him. Ideally, he would see the targets but they would not see him. It was warm, too; hot some might say. People would be wearing brightly coloured clothes. They would not be looking up.

Being a Muggleborn had its advantages. It meant that nobody would look twice at him. He was wearing an expensive white shirt with the top button undone. His pin-striped blazer was tailor-made, Armani, and his shoes gleamed in the midday sun. For all intents and purposes, he was a top Investment Banker.

His disguise had its drawbacks. It meant his pace would have to be brisk, and he could not afford to look around. After all, most City workers adopt the same routine every day. To mask his final analysis of the area – he had visited last night as an American tourist – he took a mobile phone from his pocket and feigned a conversation.

The three-lane road was heavily congested, as he had predicted. A sparkling new bendy bus seemed to be the cause of much road rage; the front end had managed to squeeze into the left-hand lane while the back end still found itself in the middle. Marsh watched, hawk-eyed, as the bus driver and several other motorists traded insults.

Further up the road was one of the largest McDonald’s restaurants Marsh had ever seen and, as a child, he had seen his fair share. He hung the phone up. McDonald’s was his next destination. Beyond that, the hotel.

Marsh strutted across the stationary traffic looking neither left nor right. There were traffic lights a stone’s throw away, but he knew that any self-respecting commuter took the shortest route to their destination – no matter how dangerous.

Once he had safely reached the other side of the road, Marsh turned left and, as he had expected, McDonald’s dominated the side-road as effectively as it did the main road. He crossed the road – there was minimal traffic here – and, with the same confidence, entered the Hotel California.

The reception was small, but full of colour. His shoes clicked against the burnished marble floor. The reception desk itself looked more limestone than marble and was orange, with a streak of blue through it. He got the feeling that they were trying to recreate the beach from rock.

His eyes flicked to the corners of the room, searching for security cameras. There was one that pointed at the door, and one that pointed at his back. Their combined blind spot was the space between he and the receptionist. Perfect.

The woman behind the desk was young, hardly out of university. Her curly blonde locks and slender body made Marsh think she was better off on the front cover of a fashion magazine than serving irritable businessmen.

“Welcome to the Hotel California,” she said, her shrill voice echoing off the walls. “How may I help you?”

“I reserved a room on the phone last night,” said Marsh, adopting the brusque tone he usually used with new recruits, “under Dursley, Vernon Dursley. It was a single double-bed room overlooking Belgrove Street.” Marsh suppressed a smile – Potter would be livid.

The young woman typed furiously at her keyboard, eyes narrowed slightly. “Oh yes,” she said, “there it is. You paid by Visa, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Everything seems to be in order,” she said, rummaging around in a drawer. Marsh drew his wand. Finally, she produced a small key with the number ‘Four’ written on a golden key ring. “I hope you enjoy your time here, Mr. Dursley…What’s that?”

“ _Obliviate!”_

The receptionist’s eyes slid out of focus, and Marsh set to work modifying her memory of him. Marsh was an expert Obliviator. It was an unwritten requirement for his position. Hiding the magic from Potter was useless – instead, his team of investigators would find a vague recollection of a man wearing robes. It would be one of the first pieces of evidence.

Before her vision returned, Marsh took his key and went to the spiral staircase. She would remember serving a customer, but not remember a face. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Marsh climbed the steps up to the first floor. He followed the numbers up along the corridor. One. Two. Three.

Finally, he came to his room. The door opened with little force and revealed a small room with the same orange and blue colour scheme as the reception. Marsh crinkled his nose at the garish blue bed covers and curtains as he closed the door behind him.

Wasting no time, he performed a Switching Spell on his clothes. Gone were the expensive garments of a successful banker, replaced instead by scruffy black Ministry robes, the sort he would expect of a lowly clerk. He had acquired them, via one of his recruits, from the Lost and Found in the Atrium. They were perfect.

Marsh sat on the bed, making sure he left behind a few threads of cloth. Satisfied, he squeezed between the bed and the television and opened the window. The curtains billowed gently in the light summer breeze. Marsh took in a gulp of fresh air. Well, fresher air than the room’s.

He kneeled down and drew his temp wand. Thirteen Inches. Oak. Unicorn Hair. A standard Ministry wand. He rested it on the window pane for stability. Stability and more evidence for Potter to chew on.

The automatic doors for McDonald’s were well within range. There was a steady flow of tourists entering and leaving the restaurant. The sun rays were illuminating their t-shirts, for they were all wearing t-shirts. Oranges, yellows, greens, pinks. All light colours, all illuminated. It was target practice.

Marsh watched and waited.

The stream of people thickened. There were so many of them that they had to pause and group and shuffle and wait to get into single file to pass each other. Now they were slow targets.

Marsh breathed in, and breathed out, and waited. It had been fifteen years.

_Once a killer, always a killer_ , his first contractor had said.

Marsh stopped waiting.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

The first beam of green light hit a man in the head and killed him instantly. The second hit a woman in the back of the head.

No reaction for a split second.

Then chaos broke out. Pandemonium. Panic. There were a dozen people caught in the narrow space between the McDonald’s front door and the road. Two were already dead. The remaining ten ran. Four dove into McDonald’s and six spun away from the corpses and ran down the road.

Those six collided with the press of people still moving their way. There were more loud screams. There was a solid mass of panic within range of Marsh’s wand.

His third Killing Curse hit a man in a suit squarely between the shoulder blades. His fourth missed completely and hit the golden arches.

Marsh did not look for what became of the giant structure. He pulled his window down and slammed it shut. The shrill shrieks and distant wailing of sirens stopped completely. He proceeded to take off his robes, revealing a t-shirt and jeans.

Marsh took a pair of sunglasses out of one pocket and a Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper from the other and whispered, “elephant.”

Gripping the robes under one arm, Marsh felt the familiar tug at the navel and disappeared, reappearing in an empty alley. Ignoring the stench of rotting fish, Marsh dumped his robes, wand and gum wrapper in a nearby metal skip. He emerged from the alley, sunglasses now on, walking slowly, as if enjoying the sunshine.

He entered nearby Elephant and Castle station and took the first tube to Covent Garden.

Mission accomplished.

* * *

Harry  
peeled his eyes open reluctantly. He caught the aroma of Ginny’s  
perfume. It made him want to stay snuggled close to her, to continue  
to feel her skin against his. It made him want to run his hand  
through her mane of red hair. Her deep, rhythmic breaths told him she  
was still fast asleep. Reluctantly, he untangled himself from her and  
sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

He put on his glasses and glanced at his watch. Almost noon. Almost late. Staying up until four in the morning did that.

Harry got up, wearing nothing but his boxers and executed his morning ritual in record time. Shower, shave, teeth, robes, breakfast. Half an hour later, he was at the front door armed with the depressing thought that he would not see Ginny for another twelve hours. Still, he had to earn his Galleons.

Harry checked his pockets. No keys again. “ _Accio_ car keys,” he muttered, stifling a yawn. A second later, the keys landed in the palm of his hand.

“Work already?”

Ginny was sat on the top stair, bleary-eyed, her hair tussled. She was wearing her favourite green bathrobe.

“Morning,” said Harry.

“The usual twelve-hour shift?”

“Of course. You’ll be at your mum’s, I take it?”

Ginny yawned. “Yeah, I promised to help out a bit. Make sure you come back in one piece today.”

“I’ll try my best,” said Harry, smiling as he opened the front door. “If you have to buy your mum anything, use my account this time.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “She has six children, all well off, Harry. She doesn’t need you spoiling her as well.”

“What is money for, if it isn’t for spoiling your family? See you tonight, Gin.”

“Yeah, see you, honey.”

Harry closed the door behind him, smiling. He got into his car and Apparated.

He appeared in the Atrium, beside the refurbished Fountain of Magical Brethren. He did his daily ritual of chucking a Sickle into its depths before moving on his way.

One of the only good things about the dreaded noon-to-midnight shift was the fact that he missed the rush of nine-to-five workers. The atrium was practically empty, the only sounds being the trickle of water from the Fountain and the echoing thud of Harry’s shoes against the varnished floor. Even the security stand was empty, Harry noted. Edward, the guard, had probably gone on his lunch break.

Harry passed beyond the golden gates briskly, choosing, as always, the lift second to the left. Hardly anybody used that lift. In any case, he would only be going down two floors.

“Level Two: the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” said the cool female voice as the lift lurched to a stop.

Harry was met with a large, arched door made of oak. There was no handle, only a small groove. He drew his wand and placed the tip in the groove, causing the wand to reverberate. A moment, then a script font appeared on the door:

_Enter, Harry Potter._

Harry pocketed his wand and walked straight through the door. He was met with a corridor of closed doors on either side. Wizengamot Administration Services. Possibly the dullest collection of people Harry had ever met. Without breaking step, he turned left at the end of the corridor and pushed the heavy oak doors to Auror Headquarters open.

The physical structure of Headquarters had changed very little. There was still the open-plan office style; every qualified Auror was allowed their own. Memos usually flew across the cubicles like small paper birds and posters of wanted wizards plastered every inch of wall space in every cubicle Harry walked past. Most cubicles would be empty, Harry knew. Those who weren’t at lunch were usually on the field.

He glanced at the giant, golden clock above the only door in the Headquarters – Head Auror Robard’s office. Quarter past twelve. Harry walked up to his cubicle which, annoyingly, was on the far side of the room, beside Robard’s office. Strangely, there were no Aurors at all.

Harry’s cubicle was plastered with photos of known ex-Death Eaters and Death Eater sympathisers. Some had red crosses through them, others remained unmarked. The desk was messy as usual. Lying on top of the array of loose parchment, blocking his desk photo of Ginny, was a bound document marked _Hogsmeade, 11/6/03._ Harry smiled – reliable Ron had struck again.

“What time do you call this, Potter?”

Harry turned around. Gawain Robards was in his late sixties and came from the same stock as Moody; grizzled, experienced and not to be crossed. He wore a monocle after losing most his left eye vision to Bellatrix Lestrange, lost his right ear at the hands of Fenrir Greyback and had a stump for a hand courtesy of Antonin Dolohov. He was the only surviving Auror from the First War, and it showed.

“Afternoon, Robards,” said Harry.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” barked Robards, “you’re needed in the field.”

“What’s the situation?”

“Muggle homicide in the King’s Cross area. Three dead, four injured. A code green situation.”

Harry sighed. There was nothing he hated more than wizards who were so arrogant that they considered Muggles nothing more than animals.

“We’re sure it involves magic?”

“Unquestionably three AKs – that’s all we’ve got so far. All units have been dispatched, and we’ve got the biggest mass memory modification on our hands since Pettigrew blew up that street. I have Auror Weasley leading this one at the moment, but…”

Harry nodded. “Understood, sir.” Ron was an excellent Auror, nobody could deny, but he lacked a certain attention to detail that made him unsuitable to lead urban murder cases. “Where’s the Portkey?”

Robards handed Harry a Chocolate Frog card with his remaining hand. “I want no mistakes, Potter – we can’t give the defence a ticket out of Azkaban when it gets to court. Also, I want to you to call back at least two units in case it’s a diversion of some sort. Most of all, I want a name by the end of your shift. Is that clear?”

Harry nodded. “Crystal. What’s the activation code?”

“Salvation.” Robards patted Harry on the shoulder, his face strained. “You’re a good kid, Harry.” He considered Harry for a moment longer then turned around. “Remember, no mistakes.” With that, he hobbled away and Harry activated the Portkey.

Choas. That was the only word that could describe the scene at Belgrove Road. The road was small, wide enough for two cars to just about squeeze past each other. There were approximately forty Muggles being detained outside a hotel by at least a dozen Aurors. Harry glanced over his shoulder, where the road started. There was a police ‘No Entry’ barrier and, beyond that, the air shimmered slightly, though it was not hot. Warm, yes, but not hot. It was the tell-tale sign of a Muggle Repellent Ward.

Harry turned back and focussed on the McDonald’s near the top end of the road; north, Harry wagered. The golden arch structure was lying on the ground, cracked in at least four places from what Harry could see in the gap left by the half-dozen investigators surrounding it. Not Aurors, private investigators hired by the Ministry for murder cases such as this. There was so much golden debris scattered across the road that Harry thought it looked more like a sandy beach than tarmac. And there, between the doors to McDonald’s and the fallen golden arches, were three bodies. Even from his distance, Harry could see that they were dead.

Harry composed himself and looked around for Ron. He saw the hair first, more orange than red in the sunlight, a little way from the group of Muggles. He was talking to a tall, black man Harry recognised as Blaise Zabini. As Harry drew nearer, it became evident that they were arguing, not talking.

“…you’re way out your depth here, Weasley. This is an issue for _us_ , not the Auror Department.”

“All you Hit Wizards do is rack up stats. Robards sent Aurors here, meaning it’s our problem.”

“However, the Minister for Magic-”

Harry decided it was time to step in; Ron was easily offended, and Zabini was as stinging as they came. “Is there a problem here, gentleman?” he said, causing Zabini to stop in mid-sentence.

“Ah, Potter,” said Zabini, eyeing Harry coldly, “I was just explaining to your…colleague…here that different wizards have different jobs. He refuses to grasp the concept that Hit Wizards are charged with handling crimes such as this.”

Harry glanced at Ron who shook his head disbelievingly. “As far as I’m aware,” said Harry, weighing his words so as not to provoke Zabini further, “the MLE sends Hit Wizards to bring in criminals.”

“Exactly,” said Zabini.

“And Aurors deal with Dark Wizards,” continued Harry.

“Finally, some sense,” said Zabini.

Harry sighed. “Since the spells used today are classified as Dark, does it not follow that the maniac using them was a Dark Wizard, thereby making this a case for the Auror Department, not the Hit Wizards?” Zabini’s expression went from triumphant to acerbic so quickly it was comical. “If you have any problems, you can take it up with Robards who in turn will inform the Minister.”

Zabini sent Harry a withering look before Disapparating.

“I hate that bitter, twisted coward,” said Ron. “He’s always trying to stick his nose where he’s not wanted, the glory-hunting git.”

“Fill me in,” said Harry.

“Well, it’s a code green; three counts of homicide. I’ve called in every Obliviator I can from the MAC to deal with any Muggles who aren’t eye-witnesses. Just getting the area clear has been one hell of a job, to be quite honest with you. As per Robards’ orders, expenses aren’t an issue and I’ve managed to get all the top investigators in.”

Harry glanced over at the frightened huddle once more. “Have you started interviewing them?”

“Not yet,” said Ron.

“Mosley!” called Harry. One of the dozen Aurors looking after the eye-witnesses came over. He was a short, stocky man with long, blonde hair. “I want your unit to begin the interview process. Once you’ve got what you need, send them to the Obliviators.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mosley.

As Mosley hurried off, Harry said, “did he just Apparate in, fire off and Disapparate or was there a vantage point?”

“There was a vantage point,” said Ron, “reasonably high up, probably with the sun behind him.”

“What was the time of the first spell?”

“We don’t have an exact time, but it was between eleven-fifty and noon.”

“So he wanted to be on the western side of the road, preferably on the first floor. Pull every investigator from the east side and relocate them to the west.” Ron nodded and went over to the private investigators huddled around the bodies.

Harry considered the buildings one by one, north to south. At the northern end stood a sizeable Burger King store. It was by no means as large as McDonald’s, but couldn’t be called a lightweight either. Just a glance told him the killer would not have chosen it. The gleaming glass windows reeked of the most modern of technology, and he was sure it would have been almost as busy on the first floor as the ground floor. A closer look told Harry that the glass panes were windowless. It must have an impressive air conditioning system, Harry thought.

The next building along appeared to be a house. There was a flight of chalk-white stairs leading up to an arched mahogany door flanked by two potted cacti. The walls of the ground floor were white as the stairs, but the first and second floors were a more conventional brown. Also on the first floor was a sign so small Harry almost missed it: _‘Belgrove Hotel’._

“Simmons!” yelled Harry, not taking his eyes off the hotel. He heard Simmons approach. “I want your unit to go through each room of this hotel with a fine tooth-comb. Take two investigators with you which you’re at it. I also want any staff that was on duty in the past fort-eight hours interviewed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry tried to get into the mind of a killer. It should have been easy to do, after all, he had been in one for so many nights at Hogwarts, but this was not the same brand of killer as Voldemort was. Voldemort killed for his own profit; this killing felt more like an assassination.

An assassin would have wanted to be on the first floor – the second floor would not have offered him point-blank range and the ground floor was filled with obstructions. But on the first floor of the Belgrove Hotel were balconies, and an assassin would have avoided that at all costs. He would have been seen if he fired from the balcony, and he would have been obstructed by the railings if he fired from the windows. If they found any evidence in this hotel, it would tell Harry a lot about the killer. It would tell him that he was inexperienced and foolish. It would tell him that he could send back at least half the Aurors Robards had committed. But best of all, it would tell him he would find the killer by dinner.

Harry moved on to the next building. It could not have been more different. It also had a flight of stairs leading to the door; grey, cracked marble, not smooth and white. The potted plants either side of the door were miniature palm trees and the arched windows on all three floors had no balconies. It was not too close to McDonald’s, as the Belgrove Hotel was, but not too far, either. There was a sign above the door: _Welcome to the Hotel California._

Harry decided to investigate this hotel himself.

He could see instantly why it was called the ‘Hotel California’. Everything, from the blue, marble floor to the orange reception reeked of sandy beaches in sunny California. Harry approached the reception desk where Akande, a tall, thin black Auror, was examining the computer. Harry knew he was a Muggleborn and therefore best suited for technological investigation.

“Find anything?” said Harry.

“There have been three bookings in the past three days, sir,” said Akande breathlessly, looking up from the screen. He was a young Auror, fresh out of the Academy, and so was still of the opinion that Harry was some sort of god.

“List them.”

“There were two on the ninth,” said Akande, turning back to the screen. “One at ten thirty in the morning by an Andrew Duckering and one at four twenty-two by a Gerard Manley.”

“And the other one?”

“The tenth, at seven fifteen in the evening by a Vernon Dursley.”

Harry froze. “What?”

“Two days ago by Vernon Dursley.”

Harry went behind the desk and looked at the screen for himself. There it was. Vernon Dursley.

“I want the receptionist who booked this here in five minutes, Akande.”

“Yes, sir.”

The closing door told him that Akande had left. Harry stared at the screen.

_Name: Vernon Dursley_

_Address: Number Four, Privet Drive_

_Daytime Telephone: 07987123489_

_Room type: Single, double-bed. Belgrove-side._

_Room number: Four_

So the murderer had done his research. Except for one thing: Vernon Dursley no longer lived at Number Four – he had emigrated to the south of France at the turn of the millennium.

A thought struck him: was the failed attack yesterday linked to this? After all, the murderer had made some very clear links to Harry. It was common knowledge that Harry was a fierce defender of Muggles, the only Muggle restaurant he regularly used was McDonald’s and now the reference to Vernon Dursley. Harry could not afford to call it coincidence. That wasn’t how he worked.

The creaking door told him that Akande was back. Harry looked up. Accompanying the young Auror was an equally young, blonde woman. She looked distressed, and rightly so.

“Good work, Nana,” said Harry, deliberately using his first name. “Do we have investigators upstairs?” The Auror, who was grinning madly, nodded. “Tell them to focus on room number four.”

Harry got up and offered his chair to the young woman. She hesitated and looked at Harry nervously. “You should know it’s not deadly,” said Harry gently. The young woman smiled weakly and sat down.

“Who are you people?” she said shakily.

“We’re special investigators employed by the government in cases such as these,” said Harry. “Our methods of investigating murder are unorthodox but highly effective.”

“Why are you all wearing robes?”

“Why do Scottish men wear kilts?” The woman shot him another uncertain look. “Good circulation where we need it most.” The woman giggled despite herself. “That, and it looks rather fetching, does it not, Miss…?”

“Wolsey, Gemma Wolsey.”

“Listen, Gemma, we have reason to believe that the murderer stayed at this very hotel, possibly under the name Vernon Dursley. Do you remember serving that man?”

“No…”

“Well, you were meant to be here serving customers when he made the call. Are you sure you don’t remember him?”

“I do remember serving someone…”

“Yes?”

“He was…tall, I think. I’m sorry, I don’t really remember. I definitely served someone. Oh! He might have been one of you guys – he was wearing robes.”

“What colour were they?”

“Black…maybe…I dunno, I’m sorry.”

Harry knew that these were the tell-tale signs of memory change. He considered his options. One was to attempt to break the memory block, but he knew how that usually ended when Muggles were concerned – insanity. The other was to send her away and see what they had found upstairs.

“Don’t worry, Gemma, you’ve been a great help to us. If you don’t mind, I need to see what our crime scene guys have found upstairs.” Harry made for the stairs.

“Is there any way I can help?”

Harry, half-way up, turned around. There was such sincerity in her eyes that he could not refuse outright. “Yeah, go outside and talk to one of my colleagues. They might need some help out there.” Feeling a little guilty having tricked her, Harry climbed the final few stairs.

The first floor was comprised of a narrow corridor with doors on either side, most of which were wide open. Harry made straight for room four, where three investigators and Akande were analysing different sections of the small room. Two investigators were knelt beside the window whispering in hushed voices, another was tapping his wand against one of the beds, noting the colour of the sparks as he did so and Akande was rifling through the wardrobe. As Harry entered, all four stopped what they were doing and looked towards him.

“Do you have any news for me?” said Harry.

The hirsute, brown-haired man investigating the bed spoke first in a deep, gravely voice. “It was this room, for sure. We’ve tracked the most likely path of motion, if you want to see it.” Harry nodded, and the man flicked his wand.

A pale, translucent figure materialised in the space right in front of Harry. He was wearing scruffy black robes. Harry moved to the side so he could see the face. He was disappointed to see that it was featureless, like a shop mannequin.

The figure sat on the edge of the bed, in the exact spot the hirsute investigator was examining. It squirmed a little before squeezing between the bed and the television and going over to the window. It moved its arms up, as if opening the window, then knelt down on the carpet in the exact spot the other two were investigating. It drew a ghostly wand and rested it on the windowsill. It waited. Then two spells. A pause. Then two more. As the final jet of white smoke emerged from the wand, the figure stood up and went to the centre of the room. It removed the robes, revealing jeans and a t-shirt before dissolving.

Harry frowned. “Talk me through the evidence, Mr…?”

“Ford,” grunted the hirsute investigator. “The fat one’s Bunnage and the other one’s Brand.”

“Ok, Ford, talk me through the evidence.”

Ford’s stony expression softened a little, as if he was waiting for an opportunity to show off. “The evidence is substantial – the most I’ve seen in some years. As you saw, the killer came over and sat on the bed.”

“Why?”

“Merlin knows. It could have been a stroke of morality, it could have been a chance to compose himself; hell, it could have been a chance to catch his breath. The fact of the matter is, he sat on the bed and left quite a few fibres behind. The quantity of fibres suggests he shuffled about quite a bit.”

Harry frowned. “That makes no sense whatsoever. Did he _want_ to leave evidence behind?”

“It’s a possibility that we cannot rule out at this stage. Certainly the evidence suggests he was either careless or wants to be caught.”

“What sort of nutcase wants to be caught?” murmured Akande. Both Harry and Ford looked over at the young Auror, who squirmed uncomfortably.

“The same nutcase who murders three Muggles in a packed street, Auror Akande,” said Harry, before turning back to the smattering of black fibres. “He was definitely wearing black robes?”

“Unquestionably – we don’t have a match on the exact robes, but they could be an old Ministry issue, probably dating to 1998.” Harry frowned. It certainly corroborated what Gemma had said. How on earth did the killer get a hold of Ministry robes? But then again, if he knew so much information about Harry’s life, he must have had access to Ministry records…

“Right, what about the evidence at the window?”

The portly investigator name Bunnage cleared his throat. “We found the same sample of robe on the floor here as on the bed. The longer fibres and height of the windows suggest he was kneeling down. We have the length of time he was here estimated at two minutes. He rested his wand on the windowsill.”

“Why?” snapped Harry, increasingly annoyed at the unorthodoxy. “Who does that?”

“This guy does,” said Bunnage humourlessly. “Stability, perhaps? Who knows? We’re investigators, not psychologists. Right….where was I? Oh yeah, he paused for at least thirty seconds.”

“Another pause?”

“That’s what I said. This pause is easier to explain, though. Most likely he was picking his targets, assessing the environment, picking the best angle. That kind of thing. So after thirty seconds, he fired his first AK which, as we know, was a head shot. The second was another head shot, but there was a pause after. We don’t know…”

“After the second,” said Harry, “the panic would have set in. The people would be running like headless chickens. He’d have to reconsider his target before firing the next AK.”

Bunnage nodded. “That makes sense. Well, he hit the third but missed the fourth. Who misses from point-blank range? Especially when there are about a dozen people to pick off? It didn’t make sense to us, Auror Potter.”

“He meant to miss,” said Harry, frowning deeply. “We can’t fault his aim – he got two head shots, after all. No, this guy meant to miss. He wanted the spell residue to be left somewhere, and where better than the golden arches, one of the most iconic symbols in the Muggle world?”

“You’re the expert,” said Bunnage, shrugging. “After his fourth, he didn’t stick around. He definitely took the robes off since we found jean fibres on the carpet.”

“What was his most likely method of transport?”

“Almost certainly a Portkey. We’ve had no reports of anything that sounds like Apparition and we both know head-cases like this guy use Portkeys almost exclusively. They like to think they’re above the law.”

Harry nodded. He mulled over what he had been told and the only conclusion he could reach was that the killer wanted to be caught. After all, why would he use the name ‘Vernon Dursley’, only partially wipe Gemma’s memory and leave so much evidence behind? There were so many contradictions. His choice of vantage point was that of a man who knew what he was doing, as was his impressive accuracy. But if he truly wanted to escape unnoticed, he would have used Muggle means to commit the murders and wizard means to hide himself, for this was the work of a Muggleborn, of that Harry had no doubt.

“Get some MT guys to trace the Portkey, Akande,” said Harry.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh there you are, Harry.”

Harry looked over his shoulder. Ron was standing at the door, gesturing for Harry to join him in the corridor.

“Thanks for your hard work, guys,” said Harry. “If you could trace the wand and clothes, that’d be great.”

With that, he squeezed his way out of the room.

“Every other building is clean,” said Ron, shaking his head. “The interview process is ongoing, but so far, we’ve got confirmation that a man in a suit walked into this hotel about five minutes before the first spell. We haven’t got a face yet, but we can be quite sure that he’d have used a disguise. The investigators have confirmed that the restaurant sign was hit with an AK, but can’t come up with any reasons why.”

“I think I may have a reason,” said Harry quietly. “This guy _wanted_ to hit the golden arches. It was a sign. Somehow he knew I use McDonald’s. This isn’t an isolated incident – this was co-ordinated by the same person who sent those thugs on me yesterday.”

“Are you sure?” said Ron uncertainly.

“Positive. What’s more, we now know one thing: the murderer is a Ministry worker.”

* * *

**AN:** I’m not advertising McDonald’s in any way – if anything, it’s  
an anti-McDonald’s message. Eat there and you _will_ get killed. Only joking. I would genuinely appreciate your review. It  
only takes a second, and it both inspires me to write and helps to  
improve my writing. Plus, I try reply  
to **every** signed review. So it’s a mutually beneficial process. Go on. Click  
the review button. You know you want to :P


	3. The Ancient Archway of Babylon

**Chapter III – The Ancient Archway of Babylon**

Harry knocked on the door to an office he knew all too well – Minister Shacklebolt’s . A call told him to enter. As Harry had expected, Kingsley was not alone. The Headmaster of Hogwarts, a man named Escalus Doge, had turned around to look at Harry with his small, beady eyes. His dark hair was lined with grey and his long nose had a pair of glasses resting near its tip. He was wearing his trademark white robes.

“Harry Potter,” greeted Doge, nodding slightly.

“Headmaster,” said Harry, smiling briefly. “I apologise for the disturbance, Minister, but there is a matter that must be resolved immediately.”

Kingsley did not make any movement. “Is it need-to-know?” he said in his deep, reassuring voice.

“Very much so.”

Doge stood up. “Please, gentlemen, do not let me encumber Ministry affairs. I have some Muggleborn parents to reassure before embarking on my generously long holidays, after all.” He shook Kingsley’s hand. “We will meet again soon, I hope.”

He put on his crooked white Wizard’s Hat before approaching Harry and shaking his hand also. “A pleasure as always,” he said, smiling coolly. “I do hope you will be able to give more lectures next year – the students and staff alike enjoy them greatly.”

“I guess that’s down to the Minister here,” said Harry. Doge nodded briefly before sweeping from the room, his white robes billowing behind him.

“What is it, then, Harry?” said Kingsley, beckoning Harry closer.

“I’ve got some very bad news for you, Kingsley. The killer was a Ministry worker, and he has some sort of grudge against me.”

Kingsley motioned for Harry to sit, the only sign that he had registered the information being a very slight, almost imperceptible narrowing of the eyes. He said only one word. “Explain.”

Harry recounted the entire mission, including even the smallest shreds of evidence. After all, Kingsley had once been an Auror and an extremely good one at that – Harry was not so arrogant that he would not accept a second opinion. Well, third, if he counted Robards. When he had finished, Kingsley leaned back in his chair and said, “what do you propose?”

“A complete sweep of the Ministry. Allow us to have every single last worker questioned – account for everyone. The killer will be the one man who is entirely unaccountable.”

“You do realise that, time-wise, it will be an extraordinarily expensive procedure?”

“The killer will strike again if we don’t find him,” said Harry flatly.

Kingsley drummed his fingers on his polished table, looking at something past Harry’s shoulder. Then, suddenly, he stood up. “It will be done,” he said. “All the Aurors, I assume, are accounted for?” Harry nodded. “Do you what you need to do, then.”

“And you’ll allow authorisation to any relevant Ministry document?”

“Yes, of course. Edward will have most of what you need.”

“Thanks, Kingsley,” said Harry, rising to his feet.

There was work to be done.

* * *

Ginny dismounted her brand new  
Nimbus Zeus. Other than her plain, gold wedding ring and locket, it  
was probably her most prized possession. It had led her to forty-six  
straight wins and counting. She walked up the beaten track she knew  
too well, the track that led to the Burrow. Her childhood home looked  
much the same as it did when she was eleven years old. While the  
family had been scarred beyond healing by the war, the house retained  
its crooked warmth. Ginny glanced up at the window she knew to be her  
old room. She remembered the nights she’d spend staring out of the  
window, wishing. Wishing she was old enough to be at Hogwarts,  
wishing she had sisters, wishing she lived in a sprawling country  
manor, and, above all, wishing she was rescued by the great Harry  
Potter. Ginny smiled weakly.

As she passed the old shed, she noticed a small boy, Teddy Lupin, sitting cross-legged on the grass playing with what looked like a worm. He had chosen blonde hair today. Ginny had taken a few more steps forward before he noticed. Instantly, he dropped the snail and jumped to his feet.

“Auntie Ginny!” he cried. He ran towards Ginny, his arms held wide, but just before he reached her, he tripped on a small hole in the grass and landed, hands first, at her feet. Ginny laid her broom on the ground and helped Teddy up. She could see he was in pain, but he did not cry. Strong like his father, clumsy like his mother.

“You’ve got to be more careful, Teddy, dear,” she said, getting rid of the mud on his hands and knees with her wand.

“Is Uncle Harry coming?”

Ginny smiled. “Not today, I’m afraid, he’s at work.” Teddy’s hopeful grin became a frown. Then, as his eyes passed over the Zeus, the frown disappeared.

“Broom ride!”

Ginny grinned meekly. “Your nan wouldn’t want you to...”

“Oh please, Auntie Ginny, _please!”_ Whether it was his metamorphic abilities or not, his dark eyes seemed to get wider and swum pleadingly. Ginny sighed. She could never resist him.

“Alright, then, but this is the last time...”

“Yes!” Teddy hugged Ginny’s waist briefly.

Ginny, holding Teddy close to her all the while, did a few laps around Ottery St. Catchpole at half her usual pace. Before landing, she did a loop-the-loop to which Teddy screamed with delight. As she came to land, she noticed two women standing on the lawn. One was her own mother, hands on her hips, short and portly as ever. Towering over her was Andromeda, who had her arms folded, her aristocratic good looks still with her.

“Ginny!” snapped her mum as soon as Ginny’s feet touched the grass. “How many times have I told you that it’s dangerous to take a child on an adult-sized broom, let alone a Zeus, for Heaven’s sake? What would you do if Teddy got hurt? If Harry knew...”

“...he’d take him for a ride himself,” said Ginny, helping Teddy off the broom.

“You’re both reckless! It’s a good thing you don’t have children, that’s for sure!”

“You have a good time around ours, don’t you, Teddy?” said Ginny, ruffling the young boy’s hair.

“Yeah!” said Teddy breathlessly. “Uncle Harry lets me have _any_ sweets I want _and_ he buys me toys.” He glanced at Andromeda as if berating her for not doing the same.

“Your godfather spoils you, Theodore,” said Andromeda. “Go and get your things ready, we’re going to visit Uncle Bill soon.”

Teddy frowned. “I wanna see Uncle George,” he moaned.

“Uncle George is busy,” said Andromeda. “We will visit Uncle Bill and you’ll be nice to Victoire this time, _won’t_ you?”

“Yes...”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, nan,” he said monotonously, his head bowed. With that, he traipsed into the house, mumbling under his breath.

“You really must stop spoiling him, dear,” said Andromeda, watching after him. “I don’t want another Black prince raised, and he already has enough people doting on him.”

“Harry will always spoil him,” said Ginny. “It’s just the way he is, not to mention he takes being a godfather very seriously. Me, I just love that kid. There’s something about him...”

“You know who he reminds me of?” said her mum. “Sirius.”

“Funny you should say that,” said Andromeda, “Cissa said the exact same thing the other day, and she should know.” Ginny pursed her lips. While the Black sisters had long since reconciled, Ginny was firmly of the opinion that a Death Eater never changes it spots. After all, the Malfoys had already deceived the Ministry after the First War.

“Why would she know?” said her mum. “Sirius hated her, didn’t he?”

“Didn’t you know? Sirius and Cissa were inseparable as children. They were the only Blacks of a similar age and were stuck at the hip. Of course, you could see the attraction; they were both vain, both self-important, both liked feeling in control. His mother, may she rot, was always worried for Sirius’ masculinity, especially after he refused to play with all those _nice_ Pureblood boys she brought round.”

“Goodness, I think Arthur might have told me that years ago, but I’d forgotten. I never understood how they managed to grow up so _different_...”

“Their will-power,” said Andromeda frankly. “I have yet to see someone with as strong a will as Sirius, bless his soul. Cissa, on the other hand...well, she had Bellatrix’s larger than life personality and my grades to contend with. She always did try far too hard to please our parents, and that, of course, included marrying Lucius at their request.”

“She had an arranged marriage?” said Ginny, screwing her nose up in disgust. “I thought that tradition died out centuries ago?”

Her mum and Andromeda shared a look. “Beheading house-elves was supposed to have died out centuries ago, too,” said Andromeda gently. “You see, dear, the number of ‘true’ Purebloods was diminishing – it was no longer prudent for parents to allow their children to marry for love. They married for reputation.”

“Let me tell you something,” said her mum, resting her hand on Ginny’s shoulder, “my parents were not at all happy with your father, even with the Black in him. Had he not been a Pureblood...”

Ginny shuddered. It was moments like these that the extent of her sheltered childhood hit her. After all, the Weasleys barely interacted with the traditional Purebloods – they found her dad’s affinity with Muggles, their lack of wealth and number of children practically vulgar.

“We really should get going,” said Andromeda, punctuating the silence.

“Oh, no, not without one last cup of tea,” said her mum.

“And it stops mum berating me,” said Ginny, hugging her mum briefly.

Andromeda considered, then, “oh, go on, then.”

* * *

Harry walked briskly up the stairs  
leading to the Ministry interrogation room, located on the first  
floor along with the Ministry detainment cells. The first floor was  
quite similar to the Department of Mysteries in that very few wizards  
knew what it contained, let alone had been in it. The lifts did not  
stop there, and the stairs leading there were hidden. The bright,  
white corridor had cell doors on either side, doors that had no  
windows, unless an MLE employee authorised one. At the very end was  
the room Harry was searching for, the room that held one of the five  
unaccounted Ministry personnel.

Harry entered the interrogation room without pause. There was a single table and two chairs, one either side of it. One of the chairs was occupied by a Middle-aged wizard Harry vaguely recognised.

An Auror, Akande, had his wand trained on the man while another, Smith, had a Quick Quotes Quill at the ready. The walls were bare, except for another door that led to an Auror-guarded waiting room for suspects.

Harry took his seat and examined the file in front of him.

_Name: Dexter Francis_

_Age: Forty-seven_

_Sex: Male_

_Position: Researcher, Department of International Magical Co-operation_

“Ok, Mr. Francis,” said Harry, looking up. “Do you have anything against taking Veritaserum?”

“No,” said Francis, his voice small.

Harry motioned for Akande to administer it. The young Auror poured two drops of the clear potion into Francis’ open mouth. Harry looked for the tell-tale signs of the Veritaserum coming into effect and found them.

“What is your name?” said Harry.

“Dexter Francis.”

“What is your age?”

“Forty-seven.”

“Where were you this morning between eleven and noon?”

“At home, planning to call in sick.”

Harry studied the man’s facial features. There was no dilation of the pupils, no sweat, no movement of the eyebrows. There was nothing to suggest that the man was fighting against the Veritaserum, let alone lying. “Next one!” called Harry.

Francis was helped out of his seat by Akande and taken to the waiting room, where Harry could see a sliver of dim light illuminating a row of seats. Within seconds, another Auror, Simmons, brought in a shorter, younger man. Harry guessed he was in his late thirties before looking down at the file.

_Name: Thomas Ford_

_Age: Thirty-seven_

_Sex: Male_

_Position: Assitant Head of Goblin Liaisons, Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures_

“Mr. Ford,” said Harry as soon as the man took his seat. “Do you have anything against taking Veritaserum?”

“Actually, I do,” said Ford indignantly. “I’m allergic to it.”

Harry glanced back down at the file and flicked to the medical section. He thumbed through the sub-headings until he finally found ‘allergies’.

_Allergies: Kneazles, Weasels, Puking Pastels, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Veritaserum._

“You’re allergic to Drooble’s?”

“Yes,” said Ford, confused. “I get huge pus-filled boils whenever I so much as go near the things.”

“Next!”

The Department of Magical Transport had traced the Portkey to an alley in Elephant and Castle – the object was a Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum wrapper. The gum residue on the wrappers would have led to an allergic reaction and this man would not have chosen Drooble’s in the first place.

The final suspect was an extraordinarily short man – he rivalled Professor Flitwick in height. He came up to Simmons’s waist. Harry sighed. “That’s not him,” he said, “read the case file properly next time or you’ll have to answer to Head Auror Robards.” After all, all suspects had been checked for potions of any kind.

“Y-Yes, sir,” said Simmons.

Harry ran his hand through his hair. There were two other names left unaccountable, names Harry could not sully with an interrogation without concrete evidence.

David Marsh. Head of the Department of Mysteries. Harry had only seen him a handful of times, but he had struck him as a man who was not to be crossed. He held himself with confidence but did not speak. Harry’s fame was not an issue; his children, if he had any, apparently did not need signed photos and he did not want Harry’s company. He was so cold Harry sometimes thought he had offended him in some way.

Timothy Lovejoy, however, was insanely charismatic. Whenever he and Harry crossed paths, he greeted Harry like an old friend. Harry did not sense any false sweetness, as he had Umbridge, and he seemed like an efficient man. Certainly, Kingsley had nothing but praise for him.

Harry decided to talk to Lovejoy first. After all, he would know more about Marsh, considering they were both good friends in their days as Slytherins. Harry had even heard that Lovejoy had campaigned for Marsh’s promotion.

The route to Lovejoy’s office was uneventful, and Harry barely concentrated as his feet led him to the familiar glossy black front door. Knocking briskly, he entered after hearing a call from within. Lovejoy was sitting behind his desk illuminated only by the light from the fireplace. His curtains were drawn. Harry frowned.

“Tornado,” said Lovejoy, following Harry’s gaze.

“They’re on strike _again_?”

“I’m afraid so. How have you been keeping?” He stood up and shook Harry’s hand.

“Good, if there weren’t a Muggle-murderer on the loose.”

Lovejoy picked his cat up from the seat opposite the desk and offered it to Harry, who took it with a small nod. “Ah, Minister Shacklebolt did mention something about that,” said Lovejoy. “How’s the Missus doing?”

“Much better than me; she’s got the day off.”

Lovejoy smiled. “I daresay she deserves it after that extraordinary winning goal against the Cannons.”

“Her brother was furious,” said Harry. “Unfortunately, I’m here for more than light chit-chat, Tim.”

“I assume you’re wondering where I was this morning.” Harry nodded. “There’s to be a press meeting a little later and I merely took a very early lunch to compensate for it. With all this speculation surrounding the Minister’s possible resignation, somebody has to answer the calls from the press.”

Harry knew he could not even suggest Veritaserum – it would be a great insult and, in any case, only the Minister would be able to administer it in case Lovejoy spilled state secrets, assuming the potion would even work. No, Harry had to ask after Marsh and if he was left with no choice, he would ask Kingsley to administer the potion.

“Thanks, Tim. There’s only one name left to cross off.”

“Who?”

“David Marsh.” Lovejoy leaned back in his chair, stroking his cheek. “Obviously, I highly doubt he is the murderer, but I would not be doing my job correctly if I ignored him in the investigation.”

“I understand that, of course. I don’t think you will find Marsh responsive – after all, he is one of the greatest experts in mind magic in country, if not the world.”

“I want to speak to him nevertheless,” said Harry.

“Very well. Do you want me to escort you to the Department of Mysteries? It would be quicker than requesting a day pass.”

Harry nodded.

* * *

Ginny was sitting in the small  
kitchen of the Burrow playing with Teddy while her mother and his  
grandmother chatted idly.

“But I don’t wanna learn how to dance,” said Teddy petulantly. “Dancing’s for girls.”

“You’d be surprised,” said Ginny. After a particularly stubborn frown on Teddy’s part, she sighed. “Fine, no dancing. Here, step on the green light.”

Ginny moved the small green spot on the floor, its source her wand, left and right to the rhythm of the Weird Sisters’ new slow song, _My Cauldron’s Melting._ It took Teddy some time to keep up with the light, but eventually, he began getting the hang of it.

“Oh, look, Dromeda!” said her mum. “Teddy’s dancing!”

Teddy stopped instantly and put his hands on his hips. “I’m not dancing!”

Ginny threw her head back and laughed. When the laughter died away, she caught some movement out of the corner of her eye. The clock. There were eleven hands, not nine as it was during her childhood. Hermione and Harry had been added some time ago. Ginny examined the clock – what had caught her eye? Perhaps someone was travelling? Then she saw it.

Harry’s hand had gone from ‘Work’ to ‘Mortal Peril’.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

Ginny ignored her mother and felt her heart sink. Fear gripped her. Shaking, she ripped the locket from around her neck and remembered when Harry had given it to her.

“ _This is a very special locket, Ginny,” Harry had said._

“ _Oh my...it’s beautiful...”_

“ _It’s also a very rare permanent Portkey developed by a very good friend of mine in the Department of Mysteries.”_

“ _What does it do?” Ginny was examining the ornate, golden design. There was a chain coming from the locket just large enough to fit around her neck._

“ _It’s tied to my magical signature. If you’re ever in trouble, just say my name and you’ll appear beside me. It bypasses all wards known to wizard, even the Fidelius. It will work as long as we’re still together.”_

“Harry!” said Ginny, her voice constricted.

The tug at her navel took her from the Burrow.

* * *

The Department of Mysteries was much  
as Harry remembered it from his fifth year. The same long, black  
corridor where nothing was moving but the torches; the same plain  
black door; the same large, circular rotating room with handleless  
black doors.

Lovejoy led him to one of the doors on the right. It swung easily as they approached. Harry glanced over at Lovejoy. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

“I have it on good authority that Marsh is examining the veil in anticipation of a meeting with his new recruits. Ah, there he is.”

Beyond the sloping tiers of benches, so far below him that Harry had to squint, was a lone figure, Marsh, standing on the dais where the ancient stone archway stood, at the bottom of the great stone pit, the ragged veil hanging from it. Harry recalled tumbling down the many levels of steps, landing painfully on his back. More painful was the realisation that the archway had swallowed Sirius, never to return him. But Harry had to pull himself together. He was older now, and had a job to do. A job that hundreds of people relied on. With one final look at the veil, itself fluttering very slightly despite the still, cold air, Harry followed Lovejoy down the stairs.

It took them a minute to reach the bottom, their footsteps echoing around the chamber as they trod. Neither said a word to the other; it was as though the mystic structure at the bottom of the pit rendered them speechless out of reverence, or perhaps trepidation. They approached the veil slowly, quietly, but it Marsh continued to stare at the veil; it was as though he had not heard them.

When they were level with the Head of the Unspeakables, Harry felt it prudent to break the heavy silence. “Mr Marsh...”

“The Ancient Archway of Babylon,” said Marsh distantly, almost to himself.

“Babylon?” said Harry, his eyes narrowed. He vaguely recognised the name but could not place it.

“The capital of Babylonia,” said Marsh, still transfixed by the veil. “Two thousand six hundred and three years ago, a great king ruled that land, what is now known by us as Persia and by Muggles as Iraq. His name was King Nebuchadnezzar II and he was one of the earliest known wizards who used magic to rule over Muggles. He married a beautiful princess from the land of Media and brought her to Babylon. But, so the story goes, the new queen grew homesick for the mountains and gardens of her homeland.”

“Mr Marsh...”

“So the king called together his architects and craftsmen and told them to build him the most wonderful gardens in the world. They built tall walls with terraces on top, where they planted flowers and fruit trees. They made beautiful fountains which sparkled against the green leaves. The garden was as high as a building with thirty-five floors. It was later named the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. At the very peak of the gardens, the king, himself an expert in the lore of Time Magic, built a great archway of stone, its entrance blocked by a veil.

“It was said that the archway led to the king’s study, for when he returned from beyond the veil, he would have amassed a great wealth of knowledge that kept Babylonia far in advance of any other civilization at the time. Then, six hundred years later, quite suddenly, the Gardens disappeared. An earthquake was said to have destroyed them but there was no trace of them. No rubble, no vegetation, no water, nothing. So little was the evidence was left behind that many Muggle historians believed the place never existed.

“But in the late nineteenth century, the famous wizarding explorer Alexander Smith found the Hanging Gardens. His notes reveal that it had retained the very same elegance after thousands of years. There was no earthquake. It, he reported, was the only Wonder of the Ancient World to have retained all of its former elegance, for even the Great Pyramid at Giza has suffered at the hands of time and nature.”

“Why wasn’t Smith himself asked?” said Harry, intrigued. “Why is the information coming from his notes?”

“He died on his journey out of the Hanging Gardens. His mangled body, notes and Nebuchadnezzar’s archway were found in the middle of the Iraqi desert by a recon team from our Ministry. Presumably, the rest of the team died within the Gardens themselves, but we have not relocated it since. The recon team transported the archway here, where it has stood ever since, refusing to give away its secrets.” He turned to Harry for the first time. “Tell me, Auror Potter, do you hear the voices beyond like you once did?”

“How do you...”

“This room, contrary to its appearance, is heavily monitored by us. After all, this is the single most valuable item in the entire Ministry. The Americans have tried to buy it from us, of course, but a price simply cannot be assigned to it. It is beyond petty coins.” Marsh continued to eye the archway as a boy would his seemingly heroic father. “Can you hear the voices?”

“No...”

Marsh turned around briskly. “You are sure?”

“Yes,” said Harry, a cough from Lovejoy reminding him why he came. “As interesting as this has been, there’s a reason why I’m here.”

“Oh?” said Marsh, glancing at Lovejoy.

“Yes. There has been a mass-murder of Muggle on a scale we have not seen since Peter Pettigrew.” Harry spat the name out like poison. “Our investigation has led us to believe that the murderer was either a Ministry employee or somebody with a close link to a Ministry employee. We are in the process of eliminating unaccountable Ministry officials, you being one of them. Where were you between the hours of...”

Harry trailed off at the sound of distant whispering. He looked first at Marsh, then at Lovejoy and finally his eyes landed on the tattered veil. The whispering grew louder and he took an involuntary step towards it.

“Can you hear it now?” said Marsh.

The whispering grew ever louder, one voice stronger than the others. Harry tried to refocus on questioning Marsh, but the voices kept him enthralled. Where were they coming from? A sudden urge to walk through the veil gripped him. After all, that was the only way he would find the owners of the voices. Harry took another step forward, so that the curtains were billowing centimetres away from his feet.

Then he heard it. The voice he had not heard for so long. The voice he thought he would never hear again. Sirius.

_Join me, Harry..._

“Harry!”

“ _Stupefy!”_

“No!”

As Harry slipped out of consciousness, he felt a hand he knew well grip around his wrist.

* * *

Ginny appeared in the  
amphitheatre-like room she recognised from her nightmares. She was at  
the bottom of the great pit. She instantly spotted three figures. Two  
were men she barely recognised, the other was Harry, standing  
dangerously close to the veil that had claimed his godfather.

“Harry!” she yelled, sprinting towards him as quickly as she could. She could not let the veil take him too. She thought of Teddy. She could not let him go through the same pain Harry did. She could not let her one and only love fall beyond her grasp. Her fear gave her speed. She ran through the tears stinging at her eyes.

One of the men had seen her. He drew his wand and cried, “ _Stupefy!”_

It took her a fraction of a second to realise that it was not directed at her, but at Harry. She was close now, only a few metres stood between her and Harry. Her beloved Harry.

It took Harry an age to fall. He fell forward like a great Redwood, limp and unconscious. One of the men stood in her way, but her wand was ready. She cast a wordless Blasting Hex from point-blank range as she passed him. The warm blood splattering against her told her she had hit her target.

Most of Harry’s body was now beyond the veil. Only his arm was left, quickly disappearing from sight. She wasn’t going to reach. She was going to lose him.

“No!” she screamed.

Ginny used her speed to launch herself at Harry’s forearm in a jump that would have made her coach proud. She thought she would miss him when...

...she caught his wrist!

But her forward momentum meant she couldn’t possibly stop. She couldn’t pull Harry back. She was going to die with him.

 


	4. Out of the Saucepan, Into the Fire

**Chapter IV – Out Of The Saucepan, Into The Fire**

Five men sat at one end of a long, mahogany table, lit only by a crystal chandelier. At the head of the table sat a thin man with red eyes, slits for a nose and scaly, waxy skin. Lord Voldemort. He was perfectly still, his bony arms rested on the armrests of the purple throne-like chair he sat upon. To his immediate right was a relatively young man with long, blonde hair and an aristocratic face. Lucius Malfoy. The man to Voldemort’s right was ancient; his curly white hair fell to his shoulders, and so much hair covered his face that his reddish skin was barely visible beneath it. Romulus Lestrange. To the left of Lestrange was a barrel-chested man with unruly brown hair and crooked yellow teeth. Lysander Yaxley. The man to the right of Lucius Malfoy had pallid skin that stretched tightly over his face and a small, brown goatee. Antonin Dolohov.

“My friends,” said Voldemort, barely above a whisper. “I have been away on the mainland for some time now attending to matters that required my delicate attention. During this period, Lucius here-” He nodded slightly in Malfoy’s direction “-has been overseeing our operations to some success, I hear.”

“You are too kind, my lord,” said Lucius, his silky voice carrying almost as far as Voldemort’s sibilant one.

“You could say that,” said Voldemort, tracing a circle in the table with his long index finger. “Lysander, my trusty battle axe, what news do you have for your lord?”

Yaxley sat higher in his chair, as though the praise had given him a jolt of energy. “My lord, I have excellent news for you. The outstanding Fortescue payments have been resolved, and I have personally seen to the addition of Madam Malkin’s to our payroll.”

Dolohov gave a low whistle – they had been looking to control Malkin’s for some months now. Voldemort, however, did not give any recognition to the news. “Did I not say that Zonko’s was our priority?” he said quietly. Beside him, Malfoy’s lips curved into a small smile.

“My lord,” said Yaxley, “we are continuing to work on Zonko’s. However, we can expect monthly returns of five hundred Galleons from Malkin’s – it is a most useful investment.”

“The returns from Zonko’s would be more than double that. You have disappointed me, Lysander. Lord Voldemort does not settle for second best.”

“Please, my lord,” said Yaxley, “allow me one more chance and I will bring us the control of Zonko’s by any means necessary.”

“If I may,” said Lucius, leaning forward a fraction, “the acquisition of Zonko’s should be a subtle affair, requiring great wit and intellect. On one hand, we may wait for Lysander to strong-arm his way to our goals, but on the other, I can take over this particular mission, leaving Lysander to tend to business he is more suited to.”

“Zonko’s owner is not some mindless Ministry crone who requires a glimpse of gold to control,” snapped Yaxley.

“Nor is he a little old woman, cowering at the mere sight of a wand.”

“Enough,” whispered Voldemort and the two men fell silent at once. “Lysander, you have done well to maintain and expand upon our interests. However, Zonko’s will require time and effort you do not have available and for that reason, I transfer the mission to Lucius. I expect a majority stake by the next full moon. Romulus, what news?”

“The best, my lord. With some help from Antonin here, I located the Prewett twins. At Lucius’ request, we killed one but captured the other, leaving a dead transfigured Muggle in his place. We have since received confirmation that Dumbledore believes both men to be dead.”

“That is news indeed,” said Voldemort. “Those brothers were no more than thorns, but I feel I must attend to the one who lived personally. You have made good progress, Romulus, old friend, and for that you will be rewarded. And so we come last to our master of deceit and espionage. Antonin, what news do you have for your lord?”

“Peter Pettigrew requests to see you, my lord. For what reason, he would not tell.” Voldemort stopped the movement of his hands and sat perfectly still, nostrils a fraction wider than normal.

“He would not tell even you or Lucius?”

“No, my lord. We were forceful, but he would not relent. For such a weak, useless wizard to suddenly show spine surprised us. He is waiting in the hall, babysat by Severus.”

“Lucius, bring them inside.” As he said those words, all four of the men waved their wands past their faces and their skull-like masks covered their faces. Their masks were not white, as the ordinary Death Eater, but blood red.

Malfoy rose slowly and went to the grand double door, almost twice the height of an average door. Behind them he found two men of the same age, both wearing their white masks. One was short and round. The other was taller, thinner and slightly more stooped. Pettigrew and Snape respectively. Malfoy greeted Snape like an old friend, clasping his thin shoulder and leading him in. Pettigrew was left to scuttle in as the door closed, forever in their wake.

Malfoy noticed that Severus hesitated slightly as he entered the room. He was a smart wizard and would have realised that he had walked in on one of the most exclusive councils in Britain. The leaders of the Death Eaters. The hallowed Inner Circle. The four men ordinary Death Eaters enviously termed The Knights. The Dark Lord and his Knights.

Severus bowed low when he came close enough for the firelight to illuminate the Dark Lord’s face. Pettigrew followed suit.

“Severus Snape,” said Voldemort, smiling. “It is no coincidence that you were the one to accompany Wormtail, here, is it?”

Snape froze. “You know all, my lord. I have a favour to ask of you in private.”

Voldemort considered Snape for a moment, before turning to Pettigrew. “Why have you interrupted me and refused to confide in your superiors, Wormtail?”

“M-My l-lord,” said Pettigrew, stumbling forward, “I h-have important news – n-news you would want t-to hear of first y-yourself.”

“Then tell me, and do not labour over it.”

Pettigrew took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a second to compose himself. “I-I have been made the J-James’ secretkeeper, my lord.”

Behind their masks, Malfoy narrowed his eyes, Lestrange stroked his white beard thoughtfully, Dolohov’s jaw dropped, Yaxley smiled victoriously. Voldemort did nothing.

“I do not believe it,” said Malfoy, gazing at Pettigrew with cold disdain. “Potter is surrounded by strong, loyal friends – Longbottom, Bones, Moody, McGonagall, Lupin, Dumbledore and, of course, Black. It makes little sense for him to trust a worthless, spineless near-squib with his Mudblood wife and son.”

“On the contrary, Lucius,” said Voldemort, “it makes perfect sense. Potter foolishly clings to the belief that I can be deceived or predicted. He would have me find Black or Lupin; after all, who would even dream of Wormtail being appointed to such a sensitive and dangerous position? He underestimated me, and it will cost him dearly.” He moved forward with speed and guile and snatched the piece of parchment Pettigrew held and glanced at the scrawled handwriting:

_The Potters live at 5 Godric’s Hollow._

“M-My lord,” muttered Pettigrew, his head moving left to right frantically. “Y-You promised, my lord...”

Voldemort stood, sharing a look with Malfoy.

“Not J-James...j-just the boy...you promised...”

Voldemort gave Pettigrew a cold look before disappearing behind a small, arched door on the far side of the dining hall.

“NO!” screamed Pettigrew. He looked left once more before rushing after the Dark Lord. With a hollow thud, he collided with a shimmering wall of air. His mask slipped off, revealing the tears streaking out of his watery blue eyes. His face was contorted with rage and fear and self-loathing.

“Did you honestly believe,” said Malfoy softly, “were you truly naive enough to think that the Dark Lord would spare Potter?”

Pettigrew fells to his knees, his head now in his hands, sobbing. “He said...he said...”

Yaxley laughed raucously, Dolohov and Lestrange exchanged a look.

“He said nothing,” said Malfoy icily. “It was Severus who promised you the Dark Lord would spare the Potters, not the Dark Lord himself. If you were fool enough to believe him, then you are more of a fool than I first thought.”

“I’m s-so sorry, James...”

“And if you so much as speak to Potter, Yaxley here will teach you how we deal with Death Eaters who turn from the cause.”

Pettigrew’s wailing grew louder.

“Mr Malfoy,” said Snape quickly, “may I have a few moments of the Dark Lord’s time?”

Malfoy turned to Snape slowly. “The Dark Lord is extraordinarily busy, Severus. I can relay your message to him.”

“It is of the utmost secrecy,” said Snape – was that a note of pleading in his voice?

“On your own head be it,” said Malfoy.

Snape stepped over the shivering form of Peter Pettigrew and made for the door the Dark Lord had entered minutes before. He knocked briskly.

“Enter, Severus.”

Voldemort was standing with his back to him, staring out of the arched window and into the velvety night sky. Nagini was curled up on a hearth rug by the crackling fireplace. The shelves that ran across the walls were laden with books, scrolls and what looked like scraps of parchment. There was, however, no table in this study, only an immense armchair facing the fire.

“My lord,” said Snape, bowing. He had never been so scared in his entire life. After all, he had only been face to face with his lord four times – once at his initiation, once to tell him the prophecy, once when Voldemort had promoted him and now for the fourth time. Lucius had always told him to treat the Dark Lord with nothing but respect – he was a fearless, merciful leader but his mood could not be predicted. Now that Snape was in his lord’s presence, alone for the first time, he could not stop his palms sweating. What would the Dark Lord say of his weakness? He would have walked straight out of the room had his feet not been glued to the floor.

“You need not bow, Severus,” said Voldemort without so much as a glance over his shoulder, “we are not house-elves.”

“Apologies, my lord.”

“Severus Snape,” said Voldemort quietly, “the only child of Eileen Pince, Pure-blood, and Tobias Snape, Muggle. Tobias was an abusive, alcoholic, magic-hating man. He was jealous of your mother and, when you received your letter, jealous of you. His drunken murder of your mother led you to seek revenge. You poured yourself in the Dark Arts at the tender age of twelve, vowing to avenge your mother. But one consistent factor kept you from enacting this revenge, a factor that brings you before me today.”

Snape felt the wind knock out of him. How had Voldemort known? It was...impossible... Had he already decided to kill him for his weakness? Snape looked around the room for a form of escape, but there was none. Behind him was a room filled with some of the most feared and powerful wizards in the world; the window was out, too – they were at least fifty metres from the ground.

Voldemort turned around and fixed his red eyes on Snape. “Do not be afraid,” he said softly. Voldemort approached the fireside and sat on his grand armchair. He conjured a smaller armchair beside him and motioned for Snape to sit.

Snape, so afraid he could barely move, sat in the proffered chair.

“You are a young men still, Severus, and as such not yet immune to certain weaknesses in men. I shall be frank with you. Lily Potter was given the opportunity to join me and refused quite adamantly. That alone, as you know, bears the sentence of death.”

“I could convince her to change her mind, my lord. She is being misled by Potter; she is not referred to directly by the prophecy...”

“Speaking about the prophecy ever again will spell the end of Severus Snape,” said Voldemort calmly, the fire reflecting in his eyes making his pupils seem as though they themselves were crackling. “I admit that she has some skill, but do not pretend you wish to spare her in order to help our cause. You have always loved her, have you not?”

Snape went to deny it, but Voldemort silenced him with a dangerous look. “If life teaches you anything, Severus, let it be this: it is folly to love. Love leads to pain, pain is weakness. How did you feel when your father took his fists to your mother?”

Snape recalled the nights he spent cowering in the corner of the living room as his father beat up his mother. His fists curled up into a ball thinking about it. “Angry,” said Snape hoarsely.

“And when angry, one cannot make correct decisions. Indeed, decisions of any kind require a clear mind. You see now why only the weak are susceptible to love?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have been doing some very good work for the cause, Severus; it would be a pity if you threw it all away for a Mudblood.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Having said that, I will give Mrs Potter one more chance. If she spits my gratitude back in my face as she has done in the past, then I will not be so merciful.”

Snape tried not to let his relief show. Surely Lily would not needlessly give her life away. Surely, even with her son and husband dead, she would realise that there was nothing to be gained in death. And he, Severus, would be there to comfort her when she needed him most.

“Thank you, my lord, you are supremely generous.”

Voldemort waved a thin hand towards the door. “Leave me now, I must feed Nagini.”

* * *

Harry heard it before he saw it. The whispering grew in crescendo as if it were a distant army charging towards him. Whispering became humming, humming became screams. Screams 

surrounded him; screams of mirth, screams of anger and screams of anguish. He heard dozens of curses being screamed. He heard walls crashing down, doors being burst through and windows smashing.

He was at Hogwarts.

As his vision cleared, his breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t possible... There was no way... But there was the evidence, right before his eyes. He was reliving the Battle of Hogwarts.

But, and he couldn’t explain why, it felt...different. He felt detached from it, almost as though it were a Pensieve memory. A piercing laugh caught his attention, a laugh he thought he would never hear again.

Duelling furiously, mere metres away from him, were Tonks and Bellatrix. But it was impossible. They were dead. Beside Tonks was Remus, who himself was trading spells with Antonin Dolohov, a man Harry knew to be the most dangerous Death Eater at that moment.

“Looks like the cub will lose both parents!” shrieked Bellatrix, as she deflected a red curse. She replied with a Cruciatus Curse, which Tonks had to duck out of the way of.

“Shut up, Lestrange,” hissed Dolohov, who himself was melting the shards of ice Remus had sent at him, “and finish the damn job.”

Harry drew his own wand, and a strange thought struck him. Was the veil somehow offering him the chance to save Remus and Tonks? He thought of Teddy, and how happy he would be with both his parents returned to him.

But as the thought crossed his mind, his vision began to cloud. He rubbed his eyes, trying to bring back his vision. His glasses were still on, so why could he see nothing?

Then there was a blast so loud his ears began to ring. His vision returned. He was still at Hogwarts, still at the Battle of Hogwarts. The blast was a corridor being destroyed. He saw himself, at seventeen, flying through the air, gripping on to his wand for dear life. Hermione had already landed, cushioned by the body of a Death Eater.

Fred was falling head-first towards a bed of jagged, broken bricks. Harry had just enough time to cast a Cushioning Charm, a charm that would save his life. He could save the entire Weasley family immense grief. He could save Ginny from crying at night, once a month, for she had been closer to the twins than anyone. As the words began to form on his lips, he was suddenly swept off his feet as though he too was sent flying by the blast.

He was flying through a thick mist at such a high speed that the skin on his face was pulled back, unable to keep up. His mouth was open, but he couldn’t breathe. His eyes began to strain – they felt as though they would pop out of their sockets. Then it stopped.

The air was dry and thin – he was high up.

“Draco, do it, or stand aside so one of us-”

Harry blinked as he took in the scene before him. Dumbledore was standing against the ramparts, very white in the face, but calm. Draco had his wand trained on Dumbledore, perhaps even paler than the headmaster. Death Eaters Harry knew all too well surrounded him. Greyback was slumped in the corner of the room. And suddenly, Harry understood. He was being given the chance to save Dumbledore. All he had to do was disarm Severus as he came into the room.

“Severus...”

But if Dumbledore stayed alive, what then? After all, he only had weeks to live. What could he achieve in those weeks? Dumbledore had chosen his death day very carefully – it was his death and his intricate plan that gave Harry the strength to beat Voldemort.

As quickly as it had stopped, the ferocious wind picked up again. He thought he could predict where the wind would take him next and, when he landed in the veil room again, his fears were confirmed.

Sirius and Bellatrix were duelling, unaware that Dumbledore’s arrival had halted all other fights. Sirius had blocked one of Bellatrix’s curses and was laughing at her.

“Come on, you can do better than that!”

A thought struck Harry. If he, Harry, had not died walking through the veil, perhaps Sirius hadn’t either. Or... was this death? He was being forced to relive memories he would rather leave behind. Perhaps this was what people meant when they said their lives flashed before their eyes.

As Sirius fell through the veil, Harry was propelled away from him, away from the amphitheatre. The wind was less vicious. He could see things rushing past him; objects, people, places. The tri-wizard cup, two hands around it, went by in a glimmer of gold. He thought he heard a voice whisper, “kill the spare.” He saw a small creature, a rat, darting past him, and the wind howled. He caught a glimpse of Riddle, of Hagrid, of himself standing in front of the Mirror of Erised. The words above it imprinted in his mind’s eye:

_Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_

_I show not your face but your heart’s desire._

He saw Dudley, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, the strange men with funny clothes who used to approach him. It all went past faster and faster until everything went blank. This is it, thought Harry, I’m dying.

Darkness.

Had it all been a dream?

Harry woke up feeling unbalanced, aching and altogether unrested. He extended a hand, expecting to find his glasses on the table, but there was nothing there. Harry immediately sat bolt upright. The room was dim, his vision blurry and as a result he could barely see his hand in front of his face. He tried to remember what had happened.

Suddenly it all came flooding back. The murderer investigation, the veil room, the voices, walking through the archway, all those memories. _I should be dead._ Perhaps he didn’t walk into the veil; 

perhaps this was a trick of Marsh’s. Thankfully, Harry found his wand in his pocket and summoned his glasses. When his vision returned, his jaw almost dropped.

He was in the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive.

Every detail was the same...the bed, the desk, the carpet, even Hedwig’s cage was here. So, Marsh was trying to psychologically harm him. Well, he was not going to let that work.

Harry slipped off his bed and held his wand aloft. He checked every corner of the room for tampering or inconsistencies. It took five minutes and by the end, he had to reluctantly conclude the room was exactly as it had been in his sixth year down to the finest detail. There were even newspaper cuttings littering the floor of Hedwig’s cage. But how could Marsh have done such a precise job? He doubted even Voldemort would be so precise.

He went over to Hedwig’s cage and examined it more closely. He had not, of course, bought an owl after she died – it did not feel right. Instead, he used Ministry owls or borrowed Apollo, Ginny’s owl, when he had to. Suddenly, a yellowing headline caught his eye.

_**Mounting Pressure On Bagnold After Famous Aurors’ Disappearance** _

_By special reporter Rita Skeeter_

_Frank and Alice Longbottom were confirmed as the latest Aurors missing yesterday evening by Head of the Magical Law Enforcement, Bartemius Crouch._

_The announcement came as pressure has been mounting on pacifist Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold to step down. A source close to the Minister told your reporter, “Bagnold is definitely losing her grip on power. She has failed to quell the rise of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and refuses to acknowledge that emergency measures must be enforced if we are to stand any chance against Him.”_

_Meanwhile, Mr Crouch has been hailed for his no-nonsense approach to captured Death Eaters. Measures such as widening Auror powers and throwing Death Eaters in Azkaban without cumbersome, time-consuming trials has levelled the playing field, with more Death Eaters being caught than ever before._

_But with the continual depletion of his forces and lack of support from Brainless Bagnold, can Mr Crouch hold out for much..._

The rest of the article was covered by another one. Harry frowned. These weren’t the same as the ones he had used to cover Hedwig’s cage. What was Marsh playing at? He glanced at the headline of the next article.

_**Dumbledore Calls For More Protection For Muggleborns** _

The article itself was covered by another clipping.

_**Head Healer Warns: St Mungo’s On The Brink of Closure** _

_There are so few spare beds left at St Mungo’s, the hospital has been forced to turn away any patient whose affliction is not classified as ‘severe’, Head Healer Gormond warned today._

“ _Our Healers are beyond stretching point and, with increasing patient numbers and Healers emigrating, the hospital is in real danger. If the Minister does not act quickly to invest money in the protection of our employees and opening of new wings, I fear we will no longer be able to operate. Our need is dire..._

The remainder of the article had been ripped. What was going on? Why would Marsh plant articles from the first war? It made no sense. There was only one more article visible.

_**Economy In “Worst Crisis For Five Hundred Years”** _

_Economists working for Gringott’s have warned that the British wizarding economy will collapse without immediate financial restructuring by the Ministry._

“ _Our previously flourishing trade links with America, India and Hungary have waned in recent months amidst fears that our top businesses are being run by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,” said Morris Jackson, Gringott’s Head Economist._

“ _Many of our strongest economic allies are boycotting our goods and as a result, 20 of businesses have been forced to close. A further 35 are predicted to be paying blood money to Death Eaters, and 15 are only floating due to Ministry subsidies. We have a real crisis on our hands and without drastic action, the brain drain will intensify and the economy will stagnate. This is our worst crisis for five hundred years..._

Harry felt the movement before he saw it. The door was prised open and Ginny sneaked in cautiously. Harry was not going to be tricked, not again.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ he cried. Surprised, Ginny’s wand flew out of her hand and Harry reached out and grabbed it. He examined the wand briefly – it was certainly an accurate imitation.

Harry approached Ginny, or her imposter, and gripped her gruffly. She looked at him with surprise and hurt. He felt a jolt of pain but ignored it – he was not going to be tricked twice.

“Harry, what...”

“Who are you?” barked Harry, piercing her with a furious glare.

“It’s me, Harry; it’s Gin.”

Harry shook her and said, “Are you an imposter?”

“Wha...?”

“I said, are you an imposter?” yelled Harry.

Ginny’s eyes were swimming with tears. “No! It’s me, Harry!”

“Prove it,” he hissed, ignoring her lack of struggle.

“The locket,” she gasped, “you gave me a locket for my twenty-second birthday.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Harry. “What is strange about my upper right thigh?”

“Just let me go and I’ll tell you...”

Harry gripped her even tighter. “Tell me now.”

“You’ve got a scar in the shape of a pyramid from the fight against Rodolphus Lestrange in 2000.”

“What do I call Teddy?”

“Thunder.”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, released Ginny and enveloped her in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “but there’s something weird going on here.” They kissed gently and, when they broke apart, Harry brushed her tears away.

“Thank heavens you’re alright,” she said. “I thought...I mean, when you fell through I thought the worst.”

“You came after me?” said Harry, caught between disapproval and surprise.

Ginny unfurled her fist to reveal the locket, the chain broken but otherwise in perfect condition. “I was at the Burrow and saw the clock...”

Harry smiled sadly. “I was stupid – this entire thing is my fault. I would have seen it if it weren’t for the veil...”

“It’s not your-”

“Yes, it is,” said Harry. “But that’s not our main problem right now. Our main problem is that we’re stuck in God knows where with Marsh playing mind games. What’s out there?” He nodded towards the door.

Ginny bit her lip. “It’s Dudley’s house at Privet Drive, I’m sure of it. What’s going on? We should be dead...”

“One of the few things I know about Marsh is that he’s an absolute master of mind magic. There is a possibility that he’s constructed this from my memory somehow, in which case that veil we fell through was not the real one.” Harry felt anger at the thought of Marsh stealing his memories but subdued it – he had to think clearly to find a way out.

“Why would he want to do this?” said Ginny.

“Aurors use technology invented by the Department of Mysteries without giving them any credit,” said Harry, “which is why the two departments are less than friendly. It could be that he feels he’s getting back at me. Or...no...”

“What?”

“Kingsley’s stepping down; Marsh wants me out of the way so I won’t support Robards’ bid for office. I’m such an idiot! How did I not see it?”

“Because you don’t think like those snakes.”

“But then why are there articles about the first war?”

Ginny shot him a questioning look. “What articles?”

Harry pointed at Hedwig’s cage. Ginny spent a minute glancing over the pieces of article, frowning all the while. Meanwhile, Harry contemplated their position. Clearly, they were somewhere within the Department of Mysteries, where he was not sure. What was Marsh expecting? Did he think Harry would give in to him because it seemed like he was back at Privet Drive?

“Politics, Defence, Health and the Economy,” mumbled Ginny, running a finger down one of the silver bars. “Do you think the choices were deliberate?”

Harry went over to Ginny and studied the articles again. “They’re all concerned with the fall of the wizarding world,” said Harry, “but what does Marsh have to gain from doing this? And why pick the first war altogether?”

“Maybe it’s not Marsh,” said Ginny quietly.

Harry frowned. “Of course it’s Marsh, who else would it be?”

Ginny looked at Harry, lines of worry appearing in her forehead. “Maybe...maybe we actually fell through the veil.”

“Well, that much is obvious.”

“No, I mean the real veil...the same veil Sirius fell through.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s impossible – we’re still alive.”

“Maybe it doesn’t kill you.”

“So you think that the veil’s taking us on some sort of rollercoaster ride, planting little clues here and there for no apparent reason? Sorry, Gin, but objects don’t work like that – humans do.”

“Let’s go downstairs,” said Ginny, tugging at his arm.

Harry crept out of the bedroom, wand raised, Ginny just behind him. He cast a Silencing Charm on his feet and moved down the corridor, checking that it was as empty as it sounded. Once sure that nobody was going to jump out at them, he went down the stairs, skipping the one that creaked, and indicated for Ginny to do the same.

“Can you hear that, Harry?” whispered Ginny, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Harry, who was on the bottom step, stood still. He could hear faint sobbing coming from below him. He felt his jaw drop an inch. It was another memory. But why then was Ginny with him? Why did it feel so _real_?

“I don’t hear anything,” Harry lied. He had to keep Ginny from the cupboard. He knew what her reaction would be.

Ginny moved past him, her eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe you can’t hear it, Harry,” she said, “it-it sounds like a _child_.” She crouched beside the door for the cupboard under the stairs and pressed her ear against the door.

“Ginny, let’s go and check that the kitchen’s clear.”

As Harry reached out and grabbed her wrist, she turned the doorknob and opened it.

“Merlin!” she gasped and Harry closed his eyes in defeat. When he opened them, he saw himself at six, so skinny his collarbones were sticking out of Dudley’s huge, faded t-shirt. His six year-old self had his head buried in the dirty bed sheets and was crying, Harry knew, because he was hungry and alone. The Dursleys had gone on a day trip without him. What six year-old Harry didn’t realise, however, was that Ginny was standing within arm’s length of him, a look of abject horror plastered across her face.

“This is a memory,” said Harry, pulling her away. “There’s nothing you can do. Marsh wants you to react like this.”

“Why didn’t you...?”

“Tell you? Why? What’s done is done.”

“Harry, I thought you were joking when you said you lived in a cupboard. This is...it’s...”

“Inhumane? I know. Drop it, Ginny. I had a tough childhood, but my adulthood more than made up for it.”

“I can’t believe this,” she said. “While I was selfishly locked up in my room sulking, you were in here, in a cupboard! How could Dumbledore have done this?”

“Dumbledore did what he thought was right,” said Harry, sighing.

“Right? _Right?_ Harry, you were living under the bloody stairs!”

“I know – I was there, you see.” Harry closed the cupboard door. Bad as it was, he didn’t want to change his time with the Dursleys. Had he grown up with someone else, he would have been spoilt by the attention and never defeated Voldemort. Though he had hated Dumbledore for it in his late teens, in hindsight he realised that the old headmaster’s elaborate plan literally stretched back to Halloween 1981. And Harry had to admit that he was the smartest man he had ever met.

The wind picked up again, and Harry thought he knew where it would take him. He took Ginny’s hand just before they were propelled backwards. There was only one other moment Harry had wanted, and still wanted, to change. It was the one moment that had changed his life forever. 

Perhaps this was a machination of Marsh’s, perhaps it wasn’t, but Harry knew he didn’t have the strength to resist the final temptation the veil would throw at him. This, Harry realised, was the memory it was all building up to. The newspaper clippings suddenly made sense.

The wind died down. Ginny gasped.

They were in Godric’s Hollow.

 


	5. All Hallows Eve

**Chapter V – All Hallows Eve**

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she was sensible she, at least, had nothing to fear. He climbed the steps, listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in. She had no wand upon her either. How stupid they were, and how trusting, thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even for moments.

From beyond the closed door came an anguished shriek like nothing he had ever heard. She had finally realised how futile her attempts of keeping him out were.

“Harry? HARRY?”

With the barest flick of his wand, he opened the door and cast aside the chairs and boxes hastily piled against it. The girl’s face was streaked with tears and she was frantically searching the room, unaffected by his arrival. How dare she ignore him?

“Lily Potter,” he said quietly. She had hidden the boy, thinking it would fool him. Foolish girl. Had she not learnt by now that he was not to be tricked?

The girl turned to face him, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes narrowed. “Leave my house,” she said, “ _now.”_

She possessed some daring, this girl, to speak to him so. “Where is the boy?”

“He’s not here,” she said.

“Do not play games with me, girl. Where have you hidden him?”

“He is somewhere you cannot hurt him,” she said through gritted teeth.

He could feel his patience wearing thin. Bravery he could tolerate, but stubbornness was a waste of energy. He commanded one of the discarded chairs to make its way to the girl. “Sit,” he said.

“No! Leave my house.”

“Where are your manners, girl? You have been a most ungracious hostess. If your guest asks you to take a seat, you do so. Now _sit_.” He flicked his wand downwards and she sat immediately. He watched her fruitlessly struggle to get up. She twisted and turned and thrashed and flailed before, finally, her shoulders sagged and silent tears ran down her cheeks. If only she would allow her intellect to rule, she would find herself in a better position than she had ever known.

She stared up at him and said, “I will not betray my son.”

He dearly wished he could kill her and be done with it, but there was a chance the secret of the Potter child would die with her, and risks were for the weak. He could see that force would not work here; he would have to use the most successful of weapons, words. “You need not betray him. You are brave, Lily Evans-”

“Potter,” she spat.

“-but bravery must be tempered with caution. Why do you fight for Dumbledore, Lily?”

“I fight for my son’s future.”

“Forgive me, but you are doing a rather poor job of doing so.” She closed her eyes but the tears continued to flow. “You have stood behind Dumbledore to protect your son but, ultimately, you chose the wrong side. Albus Dumbledore is a selfish old man who works alone – you are merely a tool in his elaborate schemes. It is because of Dumbledore that your husband is dead.”

The girl’s eyes snapped open and shone with fury, or was it pain? Such emotion, such wasted energy. “You’re the one who killed him, you filthy snake!”

“Ah, but think, Lily, what caused me to kill him? He, on Dumbledore’s orders, attempted to steal an object of great value to me. On Dumbledore’s orders, he killed Bunnage, Ferlong and Bulstrode, all of whom were important revolutionaries. He almost, as you recall, killed his only cousin-”

“Malfoy deserves to die for what he’s done!”

“Lucius was the reason why, until the Prophecy was uttered, you were safe. How he _begged_ me to spare James...”

“Liar!”

“We are not blood-thirsty murderers, Lily. Family is important to us, and we protect our own. James was killed because he had attempted to kill me on Dumbledore’s orders. Dumbledore killed James. But think: why do you oppose us? What have we ever done to harm you?”

“You’re murderers. You killed Benjy, Marlene and her family, Michael and his family, Doreen, Nicholas...”

“What do these people all have in common? As I have told you, we protect our own. I freely admit that if one of our number is killed, we will retaliate, but we do not attack unprovoked.”

“And what about the countless cold-blooded Muggle killings? Did they do something to your _family?_ ”

He moved closer to the girl. Her tears had dried and she seemed to have worked her way into a quiet rage. “There is no evidence that any of my Death Eaters have so much as touched a Muggle – you are falling for the propaganda supplied by Dumbledore. Tell me Lily, would I not have killed you had I been looking to promote blood supremacy?”

Lily laughed derisively. “What are your goals, then, world peace?”

He summoned a chintz armchair as he had seen Dumbledore do on countless occasions. He glanced at her for a reaction and saw the surprise before she hid it. He took a seat slowly and leaned back, his arms draped on the armrests.

“My dear girl, I have never attempted to hide our goals. We call ourselves the Death Eaters for a reason.”

“Oh, is that why you set Inferi on the village of Hogsmeade last week?”

She struggled against his Suppression Charm one last time, but all she achieved was the reddening of her face. When would she learn? When would she believe? The death of her husband was an obstacle. It was an unfortunate but necessary loss of another ancient family – after all, he could not risk another Potter child defeating him.

He stared into her green eyes, which grew and grew until they filled his vision. He found the memories of her parents with absurd ease and, with the barest flick of his wand, projected them into the air just in front of the cot. He added Potter and McKinnon to her parents.

“Imagine, Lily,” he whispered, “your husband, parents and dearest friend brought back from the cold, dark abyss that is death. Imagine protecting young Harry from the greatest killer of all. These are our goals, to defeat death himself.”

Lily stared at the imitation of her parents, aghast. “Impossible...”

“It is very possible, but Dumbledore is too close-minded to see the truth. He thinks only of his own reputation; after all, who will revere the defeater of Grindlewald if there lives a wizard who has defeated death?

“Join me, Lily. Join me, and I will offer you and your son protection more complete than you have ever known. Work with my team of experts and we shall find a cure to death together. Forgive me for the death of James – I was blinded by vengeance. We will correct the mistake and bring him back. Think, you will have money, status and a job helping others as you have always wanted. Unlike St Mungo’s, I will not expect you to spend more time at work than home. Give me your hand, Lily. Join me.”

He stood up and extended his left hand. She would surely see sense, and then he would use her to trap Dumbledore. Her allegiance would crush Dumbledore’s failing resistance. He locked her with his gaze once more and searched for the boy’s location. Nothing. As he had expected, Dumbledore had occluded the information, perhaps without her permission. He commanded her current thoughts to show themselves and was mildly disappointed by what he saw. She was too stubborn to see his way of thinking and, for her husband, was planning to spit on his hand.

He withdrew it just as the spit left her mouth.

“So you have chosen to anger me,” he said quietly.

“It was Severus, wasn’t it?” she hissed.

“Where is your son?”

“Did Severus tell you to spare me?”

“I will not repeat myself.”

“Tell me!”

Swiftly, he stood up. _“Crucio!”_

Her hoarse screams filled the room. The Cruciatus Curse had its benefits – slowly, it would weaken Dumbledore’s occlusions enough for him to tear through. She had squandered his generosity and, as a result, Lily Potter would be dead before the night was through.

* * *

“Ginny,” muttered Harry, staring up at his first home. This was another mission, he told himself, a mission where the stakes were personal. _Emotions are the difference between a good Auror and a bad Auror,_ Robards had once told him. _The good Auror gets on with the job at hand._

“Harry?”

Godric’s Hollow was not as Harry had remembered from his trip with Hermione. The gate was not rusty, there was no graphitised sign, the cottage did not seem derelict and, most importantly of all, the top tight-hand corner of it was in perfect condition. But he had little time – Voldemort had already torn down the wards.

“I need you to find Sirius.”

“But he may not be the Sirius we know...”

“That’s what I’m worried about.” Harry reluctantly tore his eyes from the cottage and looked Ginny straight in the eye. She was confused and a little reluctant. He placed his hand on her smooth cheek. “We’re here for a reason, I think. It’s very important for you to find Sirius, Ginny. You need to stop him coming here and therefore prevent him from hunting Wormtail if it all goes wrong. Do this, please...for me.”

Ginny sighed. “Fine. I’ll start with Grimmauld Place, shall I?”

Harry leaned in and kissed her full, pink lips gently. She tasted like banana milkshake, and he was reminded of Teddy – Fortescue’s Banana Surprise was his favourite. He resolved to save his parents and Sirius for his younger self then get Dumbledore to help him find a way back.

“I’ll meet you in the Shrieking Shack,” said Harry after he pulled away. It was the only place he was sure would be empty.

“Please don’t fight him.” Her eyes betrayed her fear, and Harry thumbed a stray strand of her red hair and placed it behind her ear.

“I’ll go in, get them, and Apparate out. I have to go in before Voldemort kills dad.”

“I love you, Harry.”

“I love you, too.”

Harry turned his back on Ginny and glanced up at the cottage once more. There was no sign of activity. Was he too late? Would he find himself, little more than one year old, marked and alone? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. The soft ‘pop’ told him Ginny had gone. He was alone.

_Assess and evaluate._

Other than the distant laughing of local Muggle children and his shoes crunching against the gravel, no sound could be heard. The air was dry and crisp, quite ordinary for an October evening. Harry, wand raised, approached the front door, oak, and examined possible exits and hiding places in case things got rough. After all, he had never consciously faced Voldemort before the Dark Lord had been ripped from his body – thirteen years in hiding may have changed the way he operated.

Suddenly, he heard a new sound – it was distant, tinny and consistent. Silently, Harry cast a Thermosensory Charm. Nothing. There was nobody behind the door. Careful not to make any noise, Harry pushed open the front door.

The entrance hall was small, warm and welcoming. There was a red rug to the left where six pair of shoes were lined up; two pairs each for his mother, father and himself. The remainder of the floor was made up of dark, weather-beaten wooden panels. Harry cast a Silencing Charm at his shoes.

_When the sun sets, across the horizon,_

The sound he had vaguely heard was a young, female’s voice singing. Was it his mother? It was coming not from the flight of curved stairs to his left, but from the open door to his right.

_When skies are no longer blue,_

Harry held his wand up at the ready – he was well aware that this could be a trap of some sort. Silently, he edged towards the arched doorway. Along the walls were three photos of a witch and two wizards he did not recognise. Were they his grandparents? The only thing they had in common was that they shared the frame with either his mother or his father. None of the pictures moved.

_When death clips our wings,_

Harry stopped just out of range of anyone beyond the doorway. He cast another Thermosensory Charm. Nothing.

_When that bird no longer sings,_

Refusing to relax, Harry slipped into the room, feet first. _You enter a hostile situation feet first,_ Robards had once said, _we can replace your legs; we can’t re-grow your head._ Deciding he wasn’t being attacked, Harry allowed the rest of his body to follow.

_That’s when I’ll see you again._

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Lying spread-eagled in the centre of the circular living room, eyes forever frozen with resolve, was his father. He was too late. If his father was dead, then so was his mother. He would find himself in the cot, possibly crying. He felt that crushing emotion he was so unaccustomed to: defeat. His eyes wandered to the source of the music; an old, rusting radio.

Then a woman began to scream.

Harry turned towards the noise. It sounded as though it was coming from upstairs. His heart pounded so hard in his chest it almost drowned out the screaming. Was she alive? Could it be? But how? Harry had relived the memory of his mother dying enough times; Voldemort did not torture 

her, he had killed her. The screams he was hearing were those of a person suffering under the Cruciatus, it was the type of scream he had been trained to recognise.

Snapping into action, Harry sprinted out of the room and bounded up the stairs two at a time. He would not be late – not this time.

The door opposite the landing was wide open. Beyond, he found the tall, thin form of Voldemort, his back turned and his mother, sat in a chair, nothing but anguish across her young face. Harry raised his wand and aimed very carefully at Voldemort, who had not felt him coming. Despite her pain, his mother stared straight at him, her radiant green eyes wide as Galleons. This was it. He would rip Voldemort from his body as he did all those years ago. But this time, he knew what he was doing.

“ _Avada Kedavra!”_

A brilliant jet of green light erupted from Harry’s wand and soared straight through the point Voldemort had been a second before and smashed through the far window, causing shards of glass to cover the cot. The falling glass stopped quite suddenly and he saw what Voldemort was attempting. Every single shard, including the one that had dug into the side of Lily’s face, raced towards him, but Harry was ready. He moved his wand in an anti-clockwise semi-circle and watched as the glass melted against his newly constructed sheet of blue flame.

Harry dove to his right and watched Voldemort’s Killing Curse rush past him, the speed and power of it causing the hairs on his arm to stand on end. He needed a way to reach Lily and get her out. All that was stopping him was the greatest Dark Lord since records began.

“Potter?”

Voldemort faced him for the first time during the duel and Harry caught something he had only seen on the Dark Lord’s face once before – disbelief. Then it hit him; Voldemort thought he was James. He had to use Voldemort’s surprise against him – the Dark Lord would be slightly sloppier than usual.

“Surprised?” said Harry.

“The Killing Curse cannot be undone. This is impossible.”

“You have messed with ancient magic and are now reaping what you have sown.”

Voldemort snarled and summoned an ashen spear of fire. Recognising it as the Spear of Mars, Harry sent a jet of water at it before freezing it, encasing the Spear in doing so. Without drawing breath, Harry jabbed his wand at the ground at Voldemort’s feet before throwing Bludgeoning Hex at him. As he had expected, Voldemort absorbed the spell.

Harry kept sending curse after curse at the Dark Lord, who absorbed them all with absurd ease. It seemed he was waiting for Harry to tire, confirmed by the faint smile playing at his lips. “I granted you a swift death, I will not be so generous this time.”

At that exact moment, Harry activated the cage Voldemort had unwittingly been empowering. The cage’s bars glowed with bright light. It was the cage he had used to capture Rodolphus Lestrange. 

The cage had defeated Lestrange, but he expected Voldemort to escape it in seconds...luckily, seconds was all he would need.

By the time Harry reached Lily, Voldemort had escaped. The last thing Harry saw before he Apparated Lily out was the final Killing Curse to be cast that night.

* * *

“Face it, Albus, Black has betrayed us!”

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his chin resting on a bridge formed by his fingers. His old friend, Alastor Moody, was pacing up and down the office furiously.

“We must not crumble to unsubstantiated rumours, Alastor. I am inclined to belief that Sirius would give his own life rather than betray the location of James and Lily.”

“Rumours?” spat Alastor. “We’re talking evidence here! You must move the Potters.”

“To move the Potters would be to assure Voldemort victory. Sirius has never been one to linger in one location overly long; I am sure we shall find him in due course. Patience, Alastor.”

“He’s followed his dear family, I know it. Why else would he just disappear off the face of the earth? And right after he was reported to be acting strangely, too. I have three Aurors hunting him down as we speak and none have got wind of him. Seems like an awfully convenient disappearance, eh?”

“While the thought of James bestowing his secret with me would have made this old man sleep easier, I could not have hoped for a better man to keep the Potters safe. We must not allow Voldemort to divide us, for this is his strength.”

“There are spies all around us, Albus.” Alastor’s magical eye scanned the room, as it usually did when the Auror was particularly riled. “The Order is no longer safe.”

“We shall see. Now, I must check up on the Frank and Alice. Go to Godric’s Hollow – if Sirius is not there within the hour, we will know where his loyalties lie.”

Alastor reluctantly nodded and hobbled out of the office, muttering under his breath as he did so.

“Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore flicked his gaze towards the wall of portraits and almost instantly pin-pointed the owner of the voice. In Dippet’s empty frame was a tall, thin, imperious man whose likeness to James was uncanny. His usually groomed hair was dishevelled and he looked as though he had run a marathon.

“News, Charlus?”

“The...worst.”

Dumbledore’s blood ran cold. “Is there any hope of saving them?”

“James...dead. Lily is being...tortured. Harry is gone.”

Gone? Surely not...

“Fawkes!”

His beloved phoenix swooped down and they both disappeared in a flash of red flame.

* * *

Almost as soon as Harry’s feet landed on the top floor of the Shrieking Shack, his arm became the victim of a pincer-like grip. Lily was staring at him with a wild look in her eye. Most of her face was veiled by her now unruly red hair; her face was soaked with sweat and blood from the cut above her cheek.

“Where is Harry?” she snarled.

Harry hungrily took in everything he could about her. He understood why people were so surprised by his eyes – they were exactly the same as hers, the same almond-shape and the same hue of green. But he was being selfish. She had just lost her husband and her son, she was distressed. Harry pulled himself together.

“I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“Voldemort...he must have...no, I refuse to believe it! WHERE IS HE?”

Harry reluctantly cast a Calming Charm at his mother. She would surely hurt herself if she carried on as she was, especially if she decided to Apparate back into Godric’s Hollow. He waited for the effects of the spell to kick in. The spell was unadvisable because of its parasitic nature – it burned energy at a far faster rate than usual and could be addictive. However, without a Calming Draught at hand, Harry had no other choice.

“I just want to find my son,” she sighed. She slipped down the pole she was leaning on and put her head in her hands.

Harry tore his eyes from his mother and made sure the area was secure. As he had predicted, the Shack seemed empty enough. Broken furniture cluttered the floor, dried blood stained the walls and torn fur carpeted the floor. The wind outside howled and, with nothing but broken windows to protect it, the Shack felt its full force. Harry tightened the grip on his wand as a rat scuttled into a gaping hole in the floorboards. He went over to the window and scanned the village. The street was deserted, an extraordinary sight on a Saturday night. But then again, Voldemort was at the height of his power.

Harry returned to his mother and crouched beside her. He was astonished at how young she was; it had never occurred to him before, but she was at least three years younger than him, barely out of Hogwarts by the looks of it. How had she, a Muggle-born, managed to find herself at the heart of the war in such a short space of time?

“There are some things I have to tell you, Mu- Lily.”

Her hands slid down her face, and he noticed how red and swollen her eyes were. She looked at him searchingly, as if for the first time. “Who are you?”

Harry sighed; he could not lie to her. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter.” The colour drained from her face. She looked around frantically and Harry understood perfectly. “I’m not a Death Eater, this isn’t a trap. I fell through the veil at the Department of Mysteries and, somehow, I’m here...in the past.”

“Stay away from me, Death Eater.” Harry could feel her straining against the Calming Charm. He had to placate her instantly or the results would be catastrophic.

“Would a Wizard’s Oath convince you?”

“An Oath?”

“I, Harry Potter, hereby swear by my magic that I will tell you, Lily Potter, nothing but the truth for a total of one hour.” Something warm bubbled inside of him after uttering the last syllable, a feeling that only stopped when his mother spoke.

“What’s your real name?”

“Harry Potter.”

His mother fixed her eyes on him disbelievingly. “W-Who are your parents?”

“James and Lily Potter.”

“This can’t be... Y-You’re older than I am...”

“I’ve been sent to the past, I think; or rather, I’m from the future. I don’t know what’s going on myself, to be honest.”

Lily clutched her forehead and said, “Long-term time travel is not possible...”

“That’s what we were taught.”

Suddenly, her eyes lit up and she tightened her fists in excitement. “This must mean you survived! W-where were you found?” Harry shot her a sympathetic look. “Please...Harry...I have to know where he is...”

“I changed the timeline,” said Harry quietly.

“What?”

“You were meant to die tonight.” Lily’s face was marred with horror and confusion. “Where I’m from, Wormtail betrayed your location. Voldemort came to Godric’s Hollow and killed dad first. Then he went upstairs and found you and me. He told you to stand aside, he only needed to kill me, but you refused. You begged him to spare me until, finally, he killed you. He turned his wand on me, but your sacrifice protected me – the AK, Killing Curse that is, backfired.” Lily simply stared. “I wasn’t meant to be here tonight – I wasn’t meant to step in.”

Lily’s eyes glistened with tears and her hand went to her mouth. “So he’s dead?” she choked.

Harry didn’t need to ask again – he knew she was talking about his father this time. He nodded solemnly.

“Oh, James...”

For what he suspected was an hour, Harry comforted her as best he could – he had never been good with crying women. He placed a hand on her thigh and squeezed gently. He whispered comforting words to her and listened patiently as she went through the three stages of grief Andromeda had taught him: denial, anger and acceptance. She had demanded to return to Godric’s Hollow, certain she would find his father there, alive; she had ranted against Wormtail using expletives even he hadn’t encountered and, finally, she stared into the distance, refusing to utter a word.

Until, “You’re really Harry?”

Harry, who had been thinking about when Ginny would return, started at the sudden address. “Yes.”

“It must have been a miracle.” Her voice was hollow and distant; she was beyond grief. Her eyes were downcast, her skin deathly pale.

“Sorry?”

Her eyes flicked up and met his. “Don’t you see? Somehow, your magic reacted to Voldemort’s attack and aged you by two decades at least. How else did you get through the Fidelius?”

Harry shot his mother a pitying look. There was such conviction behind her words that he could not bring himself to contradict her. If it made her feel better, she could believe he was an angel sent from heaven for all he cared. As long as it kept her away from that dark feeling of isolation he knew all too well, he’d be happy. He stood up, intending to do another sweep of the Shack.

It happened before he could react.

Dumbledore, slightly younger than Harry remembered him, emerged from a plume of red flame and disarmed him. He had that same look of cold fury Harry had seen only twice before. He moved Lily as far away from Harry as physically possibly and bore down on him.

Harry stood his ground but avoided Dumbledore’s searching gaze. After all, there was little proof this was the real Albus Dumbledore.

“Who are you?”

From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Lily try and pass through what he was sure was an invisible barrier. “My name is Harry Potter,” said Harry quietly.

“You must have misheard,” said Dumbledore, “what is your real name?” Harry could almost _sense_ the power radiating from the headmaster; it was a feeling he had not encountered in any other wizard after the death of Voldemort.

“Harry Potter. But why take my word for it? See for yourself.” Harry finally looked up and met Dumbledore’s electric-blue eyes. Looking into those eyes made him feel sixteen again; it was a feeling he wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

“How extraordinary... Nebuchadnezzar’s Archway...”

Harry breathed a sigh of relief – Dumbledore knew that the veil existed! Surely he would be able to pull Ministry strings and send Harry and Ginny and back. After all, whenever his baby self was found, it would be much happier than Harry had been with the Dursleys, even with the crushing blow of losing his father. It was so tempting to take his mother back with him, but he knew that the repercussions of doing so were dire. Yes, he would ask Dumbledore to escort him and Ginny to the Department of Mysteries and they’ll forget all about Halloween – it would be like a bad dream.

“I would appreciate it if you did me a favour, Professor,” said Harry, making quite sure his mother could not hear. “I need you to a pull a few strings so we can go back.”

Dumbledore lowered his half-moon glasses and tilted his head slightly. “Go back? The Lost Archway is exactly that; it has never been recovered.”


	6. Brave New World

**Chapter VI – Brave New World**

"Lost? No, it's been found by the Department of Mysteries."

"Regretfully, I must contradict you. I am well aware of the inner workings of the Department of Mysteries and can assure you that the Lost Archway has never been recovered."

Harry opened his mouth to counter Dumbledore when, from the corner of his eye, he saw Lily fall. By the time the words to the Cushioning Charm formed on his lips, she already lay on a floating stretcher.

"She needs to see Madam Pomfrey," said Harry, "I had to subdue her with a Calming Charm."

"Quite understandable. I daresay this conversation would be best confined within the welcoming walls of Hogwarts, in any case - it is unwise to linger in insecure locations in these troubled times."

Dumbledore led the procession down the creaking stairs of the Shack; Lily floated behind him and Harry took the rear, a formation he was comfortable with. However, when Dumbledore headed for the front door, Harry said, "Where are you going?"

Dumbledore cocked his head, his expression suggesting pleasant surprise, as though Harry had offered him a sherbet lemon. "To the school; were you hoping for a detour?"

"No, I was hoping I wouldn't be patronised. I know about the tunnel from the Shack to the school."

Dumbledore smiled as if Harry had solved a particularly taxing riddle. "I apologise for any offence - I was merely attempting to protect the secrets of the school. After all, caution is the father of security."

Neither spoke as they traipsed through the tunnel, the magically frozen leaves of the Whomping Willow, the Hogwarts grounds and, finally, the deserted Entrance Hall. Dumbledore stopped, quite suddenly, in the centre of the hall. He gave a sharp, high whistle and a house-elf appeared.

"Headmaster Dumblydoree, sir!" squeaked the House-elf, bowing so low its nose brushed the polished, flagstone floor.

"Good evening, Cruncher," said Dumbledore amicably. "Would you be kind enough to transport dear Lily to the Hospital Wing?”

“Cruncher is happy to, Headmaster Dumblydoree, sir!” The House-elf bowed once more and disappeared with Lily.

“Are you sure that’s good for her?” said Harry dubiously.

“Quite; house-elf Apparition possesses a level of subtlety and comfort we humans can only dream of. Rest assured, Lily is quite safe. Come, Mr Potter.”

They ascended the white, marble staircase, neither of them making a noise. The torches on either wall came alive as they approached, only to be extinguished when they passed. The first floor was equally empty; there was a faint, dimming light far in the distance which Harry assumed was a Prefect. They climbed the next set of stairs in silence.

“Albus, old boy, what a pleasant surprise!”

Harry did not need the light from the torches that had illuminated the second floor landing to know that the booming voice belonged to Horace Slughorn. In his own time, Harry had reluctantly attended Horace’s dinner parties once a year since the Battle of Hogwarts. He endured being paraded around the Slug Club like a prize horse – Slughorn made sure to introduce Harry to each of his favourites that year. In return, Slughorn became the Auror department’s Potions expert. After all, with the death of Severus, Slughorn was widely regarded as the leading British expert in Potioneering – he was invaluable in cases involving potions beyond Auror training.

“A pleasure as always, my dear Horace.”

Harry considered hanging back and waiting for Slughorn to leave. Then, when he craned his neck, he saw that the old Potions Professor’s enormous bulk was positioned in a way that suggesting he was going to come down the stairs. It would be better to appear naturally and let Dumbledore come up with an excuse – after all, Harry would probably never see this Slughorn ever again. Why should he care if he was seen?

“Oho!” cried Slughorn when Harry climbed the final few steps. He looked much the same as he did in Harry’s time, except his great Walrus-like moustache was streaked with gold and there were grey wisps of head hair dancing around a shiny bald patch. “James, m’boy, what brings you to Hogwarts?”

Harry opened his mouth to contradict him, when Dumbledore cut in. “James and I have some urgent matters to discuss. I felt, for his safety, the conversation was best conducted in my office.”

“A fine plan! How has Lily been faring recently?”

“Fine,” said Harry, forcing a smile. He did not meet Slughorn’s eyes – the dim light was hiding his eye colour but direct eye contact would blow his cover.

Slughorn’s toothy grin became a concerned frown. “Are you alright there, James, you don’t seem yourself.”

“It’s been a difficult few weeks,” said Harry, deciding not to refer to Slughorn by name. For all he knew, James had a special nickname for the Potions Master and using his real name would only cause suspicion.

“That’s quite understandable, m’boy.” Slughorn pat Harry’s shoulder sympathetically. “Well, I won’t keep you gentlemen any longer. Good night to you both!”

“Let us hope it is,” said Dumbledore.

The distant echo of Slughorn’s footsteps stayed with them as they walked briskly to the Gargoyle at the end of the empty corridor. Dumbledore muttered the password – “Humbugs” – and they waited for the moving staircase to take them to the office.

Even in the dim light, Dumbledore’s office appeared exactly as Harry remembered. Every last detail, from the wall of portraits to Fawkes’ cage was the same. Harry noticed the expensive silver instruments on the spindle-legged table and could not help but smile sadly. What he had not known 

the day he destroyed them was that the total cost of damages he had caused neared two thousand Galleons, yet Dumbledore did not bat an eyelid. It would be a formidable task convincing the old headmaster to help him and Ginny leave, but Harry had the edge – surprise.

Dumbledore took his usual seat behind his desk and Harry took his, beside the spindle-legged table. Dumbledore smiled at him, waiting for Harry to speak and Harry reciprocated. They sat smiling at each other for what seemed an age. Well aware that Dumbledore was reading his thoughts, Harry recalled highlights of his life until fifth year. While he had never managed to master Occlumency, he had learnt, courtesy of Robards himself, the fundamentals of showing a Legilimens what he wants to see. Considering how few Legilimens were left following the deaths of Dumbledore, Severus and Voldemort, the fundamentals were all he needed.

When Harry felt some of his sixth year memories coming to the forefront of his mind, he said, “We came here to talk, not to have my mind raided.”

“I apologise,” said Dumbledore, unabashed. “Would you like something to drink, tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you. No confectionary either, please.”

Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow but otherwise remained calm as ever. “Are you quite sure I cannot tempt you with a mint humbug? It’s quite delightful, though I must admit the aftertaste leaves much to be desired.”

“I don’t need to be put at ease,” said Harry flatly. He enjoyed watching Dumbledore hide his surprise – it was so quick, Harry almost missed the slight pupil dilation. He thought about all the times in the past six years he had wished for Dumbledore’s convoluted advice and now, when he finally had that impossible chance, he wanted nothing more than to be speaking to somebody straight-talking and easily read – somebody like Ron.

“I would appreciate being told the events leading to our meeting in the Shrieking Shack.”

Harry suddenly remembered he was meant to be meeting Ginny in the Shrieking Shack. What would she do when she found he wasn’t there? He dearly hoped she would lie low and wait for him once her Portkey refused to bring her inside the Hogwarts wards. After all, Dumbledore did not know she even existed – whatever the headmaster wanted him to do before letting him go to the veil Harry wanted Ginny to stay out of.

“I’ll tell you,” said Harry, “if you promise not to lie throughout our chat.”

“I would like to think the Albus Dumbledore you knew refrained from lying unless provoked.”

“So would I, but we both know that’s far from the truth. Now, I’m asking whether or not you can give me an Oath that you won’t lie to me. By all means evade certain truths, we’ll both be doing a bit of that, but _I’d_ like to think all that _is_ said will be hard truths.”

“I admit I am surprised by your distrust...”

“Caution may be the father, Professor, but distrust is the mother of security.”

Dumbledore chuckled and, to Harry’s surprise, gave the oath. He did, however, ask Harry to reciprocate, to which Harry grudgingly complied. He was, however, reasonably pleased that there wouldn’t be any white lies on the table. With that thought, he launched into the tale of how he came to the past, starting from the investigation and ending with Dumbledore disarming him.

“So here’s what I’m saying,” said Harry, throat a little parched, “I want to go back, obviously. I’ve got very dear friends as well as a godson who I love like he was my own. I can’t stay here. I tried to help baby Harry and messed up royally-”

“I daresay saving Lily is far from a failure.”

“I didn’t save my father, which means mission incomplete, which means failure. But I suppose baby Harry’s better off than he would’ve been with the Dursleys – good job hiding him, by the way – and so I’ve appeased my conscience. While I’d love to get to know my mother, I can’t abandon my friends to do that. So, if you’d be so kind, I want to go back through the veil.”

Dumbledore leaned back and examined him closely, a crease appearing in his forehead. “Harry – may I call you Harry? –” Harry nodded. “–there are some factors you have not considered. Firstly, you assume I was lying about the Lost Archway – I assure you I was not. This piece of information leads to another; you are not, as you believe, in the past. All the evidence suggests you are, from your perspective, in an alternate reality.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Alternate reality? “What is the evidence?”

“What few ancient writings we have recovered suggest that King Nebuchadnezzar’s Archway was not a portal through time; this we can corroborate. After all, would his appearances in various time periods not have been documented? No, the writings imply that the Archway is a link between parallel dimensions that independently exist side by side. Moving away from the murky waters of ancient data, your existence here, scar-less, is evidence enough. Had you indeed come to the past and saved Lily, you would have not only saved yourself from that curse scar, but you would not have been famous and it follows that there would not have been an assassination attempt on you. As a result, you would not have walked through the Archway. In other words, the changes you have made to the natural timeline have had no effect on you whatsoever.”

“Then there’s the fact that we actually managed to find the veil in our world,” said Harry, frowning.

“Yes, undoubtedly you find subtle differences between your world and ours. The most concrete proof we have, however, is the disappearance of baby Harry, for I did _not_ enact any further defensive measures. It is my belief that when the Fidelius was broken and you arrived at Godric’s Hollow, your souls collided – there could not be two Harry Potters in existence. Your soul, far stronger and more experienced, triumphed and his soul merged with yours. It is my belief that, sadly, young Harry is forever lost.”

Harry sighed and leaned back on his chair. “She thinks I’m her Harry.”

“A viable conclusion, without the evidence.”

“A different dimension...” Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. It seemed an age since he had last slept. “Professor, I’m going to find the veil.”

“So elusive is the Lost Archway that many believe it is mythical. After decades of arduous work, the Ministry have yet to locate it. I tell you this not to crush hope, but to make you quite aware of the difficult road you have chosen.”

“What are you hiding?” said Harry sharply.

Dumbledore opened his mouth but closed it almost immediately. He had almost lied. “I must say, I have never met such a perceptive young man...”

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“I have a proposition for you, one I hope you find agreeable.” Harry could not miss the worry on the old man’s face as he rose from his seat and went to the open window. “We are losing this war, Harry. We have, in the past few weeks alone, lost Benjy Fenwick, Marlene McKinnon, James Potter and now young Harry. How many other Peter Pettigrews have infiltrated the Order? Who will die next week? I confide in you this which I have told no other because you have defeated Voldemort.”

“How do you-”

“ _Never can live while the other survives_. Voldemort was never patient – he would have forced the fulfilment of the Prophecy one way or the other.”

“Yes, with enormous help from you and my friends, I defeated Voldemort. I can see where this is going, Professor, but I’m sorry, I can’t...not again.”

“I do not ask you to defeat him, only to help us...to help me. Every fatality adds another burden to this old heart and I fear it cannot cope with any more loss. I believe now that the Prophecy, the one weapon we possessed, has turned against us – it has been fulfilled in Voldemort’s favour –”

“It’s equally, if not more, likely that Neville will now be the Prophecy child. Look, how about this; I’ll tell you how to win the war and in return, you help me get back.”

“Allow me to show you some brief memories of mine,” said Dumbledore, retrieving his Pensieve from its cabinet and placing it on his surprisingly tidy desk. He disturbed the surface with his wand and a tall, broad-shouldered man floated out from its silvery depths. “This is Edgar Bones, a member of the Minister’s Council and a very close friend of mine.”

“Albus,” barked Bones, his booming voice laced with aristocracy, “the Iraqi Minister of Culture has been in touch with us; it’s as we feared. There have been reported sightings of a man fitting You-Know-Who’s description near the site where the Hanging Gardens of Babylon is said to rest. He’s looking for the Archway.”

Dumbledore tapped the surface and Bones descending back into the Pensieve, only to be replaced by a short, stooped, ancient man. “This is Marlon McMahon,” he muttered, “the wizarding world’s leading expert on the seven ancient wonders of the world.”

“Crooked thieves the lot of them!” wheezed McMahon. “All my life’s work, gone! Had it not been for my son, they would have killed me, I suspect. Oh, Albus, you must retrieve those scrolls; I shudder to think of the damage they can cause if misused.”

Dumbledore tapped the Pensieve once more and McMahon disappeared into its depths. “You have undoubtedly come to the conclusion that our paths are intertwined. Lord Voldemort has the scrolls that lead to the Lost Archway and he will be guarding them jealously. If we assist one another, I am quite sure you agree we will both benefit.”

“Ok, how about this for a deal: I take down his six Horcruxes but you find and off him yourself. Once that’s done, you’ve gotten rid of him, I get to go home and we’re all happy.”

Dumbledore furrowed his brow. “Horcruxes? Please elucidate, Harry.”

It was Harry’s turn to frown; surely if Slughorn knew of Horcruxes when Voldemort was in school, so did Dumbledore. “Horcruxes are items that store pieces of the soul. Voldemort has used them to guard against death.”

“It appears we have encountered yet another subtle difference between our worlds. I am quite sure that such a vulgar form of magic does not exist considering how stringently Voldemort has been searching for methods of prolonging his life. Carelessness is inadvisable, however, and I will contact a good friend of mine to confirm my beliefs.”

“If he doesn’t even have Horcruxes, what’s the problem? You’re the most powerful living wizard, by my reckoning.”

“You are too kind, Harry. Unfortunately, I have had very few chances to bring Voldemort to justice; he has proved quite elusive. If we were to locate him, we would find the scrolls and stand a reasonable chance of defeating him.”

It was Harry’s turn to stand up. “I have to think about this.”

“Quite understandable.”

“I assume you want me to keep up this persona as da- James.”

“If you would be so kind. I have one last request I hope you accept. It would be beneficial for your safety and the successful maintenance of your persona as James if you remained in the castle until you reach a decision.”

Harry paused, considered, and then decided on a non-committal, “I’ll see what I can do. Goodnight, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Harry.”

* * *

Three days had passed. Harry had kept his word and had not left the castle since his talk with Dumbledore. He had spent the hours alone contemplating his next move. Clearly, there were fundamental differences between this world and his, differences that he had to learn of sooner or later if he was to successfully get back.

Ginny had been in touch with him the next morning, to Harry’s immense relief. Her letter was brief, but enough to put him at ease. Harry glanced down and reread the letter yet again: __

_Harry,_

_I’m still looking for Sirius – he wasn’t in Grimmauld Place or Godric’s Hollow. The good news is that he hasn’t run into Wormtail, at least, the bad is that it could take ages to locate him. If I haven’t found him in three days, I’ll Apparate to the place you told me to at noon on the third day – it’s quite hard living off a few spare Galleons, it turns out, there’s some sort of crisis going on._

_Love you!_

_Gin_

Harry glanced at his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time – half-past ten. He paced up and down the room he had been given, annoyed at the slow passage of time. The dark red curtains had been parted, allowing the early morning November sunlight to filter through the arched windows and illuminate Harry’s generous quarters. He had been given a comfortable four-poster bed that had reminded him of his time at Hogwarts, a reasonably sized table and enough carpet space for him to pace comfortably. At his request, his food arrived in his room, three times a day and, like the food, back editions of the _Daily Prophet_ were supplied.

Harry had not been surprised by what he had read. Voldemort, as he expected, kept a low profile and had begun his ascent to power with a string of high-profile disappearances, both of information and Ministry personnel. There were combinations of co-ordinated attacks on Muggle-borns as well as isolated assassinations on outspoken anti-pure-blood activists. The uncertainty of the public had been cleverly manipulated and any criminal activity was mindlessly blamed on the Death Eaters, with or without substantial evidence. What had angered Harry, however, was the reaction of the Bagnold. Far from reassuring the public, the flustered Minister had introduced flawed decrees such as forbidding the public from speaking Voldemort’s name for their own “self-preservation”.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Harry stopped pacing and looked to the window. It was a _Daily Prophet_ owl, which he hastily allowed in and paid, in return for that morning’s edition. Clutching the newspaper, still warm from the press, Harry sat at his desk, pushing away his empty cereal bowl to make room for it. He unrolled the paper and glanced at the headline.

_**Barmy Bagnold Resigns, Crouch New Minister** _

_By Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter_

_Minister Millicent Bagnold resigned from office last night amid fears that her five year-old son was in danger, your reporter can exclusively reveal. Her resignation comes after a Wizengamot official yesterday confessed his concerns over her mishandling of the war against the Dark Lord._

_The_ Daily Prophet _can also exclusively reveal that the Wizengamot has unanimously elected Bartemius Crouch, former no-nonsense Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Through his visionary leadership, the Auror Department has brought to justice more Death Eaters than it has ever known._

__

_A source close to the new Minister said, “Minister Bagnold was an adequate politician in her own right, but never a war-time leader. Mr Crouch will prove far more proactive and will bring the peace we crave.”_

_Minister Crouch, who is believed to be drawing up defence measures with his team of experts, was unavailable for comment._

_More on what we can expect from Minister Crouch on pages 2, 3, 5, 6, and 7._

Harry frowned at the black-and-white photo of a plump, greying witch, captioned as Bagnold, doing her best to move out of frame. He skimmed through the ensuing pages dubiously – unless he was very much mistaken, Crouch had brokered some kind of deal with the _Prophet._ Every article was full of praise for the new Minister and scorn for Bagnold who, they implied, was hustled out of office.

Harry was reading about some of Crouch’s most significant captures when there was a soft knock on the door. He went to the door and instinctively wrapped his left hand around his wand. The room was, by his request, on the sixth floor, in a part of the castle Harry knew was never used. He was only ever visited briefly by Dumbledore once a day, always in the evening. So who was this?

Harry slowly opened the door, positioning his body so that his left shoulder was facing the door – that way, he was minimising the area of his body susceptible to attack and improving his chances of dodging offensive spells. It was all in vain, however; it was Lily. She looked far better than she did on Halloween – her skin had retained its natural pinkish glow, her eyes were unblemished and her hair had been neatly tied in a ponytail. She smiled, but the melancholy in her eyes contradicted it.

“May I come in?” she said, her voice soft.

“Of course,” said Harry. He considered conjuring a chair but, remembering that Voldemort had done the very same thing, offered her a seat on his bed, while he pulled up his desk chair.

Harry had not seen her since Halloween. He understood what she was going through and knew that, in her place, he would have liked to be left alone to grieve. After all, those two weeks alone at the Dursleys after Sirius’ death, all those years ago, did him a world of good. Even if he suspected Dumbledore had not, he wanted to give her space and instead sent a note along with a house-elf telling her she was more than welcome to come and see him when she was ready.

“Would you like something to drink?” said Harry. “Tea, coffee, Butterbeer?”

“A Butterbeer would be wonderful, thanks.” She sat with her fingers fidgeting nervously over her lap.

Harry relayed her preference to his empty cereal bowl, which almost instantly disappeared, replaced by two pint-glasses of Butterbeer. He gave one to Lily and raised his silently before drinking a quarter of it in one go. She only drank a sip, then cupped it in her hands.

“Are you feeling better?” he said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Much better, thanks.” She took another sip of Butterbeer. “Your eyes...”

“Dumbledore asked if I could turn them brown, so that, you know...”

“Yes, I know,” she said sharply. “I came here to thank you for saving me, and for stopping me from doing anything reckless.”

“You’re welcome, but I regret not getting in time to save –”

“I’d also like to thank you for giving me some space these past few days,” she interrupted, and Harry noticed her hand had tightened around her glass.

Harry leaned forward involuntarily. “I know how it feels.”

Harry could see her struggling not to cry. “To lose a husband?”

“No, to have everyone you’ve ever loved taken away from you one by one. To feel completely alone, to have all hope, warmth and happiness sucked from you so that all you’re left with is the numb realisation that you’ll never see that smile you loved, or hear that laugh that lifted your spirits when you were down.”

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. “He ruined your life, too?”

“Yeah, for a while.”

“For a while?”

“I killed him in my seventh year.”

Lily’s eyes widened with horror and disbelief. “You killed _Voldemort_ while you were at school?”

“I had a lot of help from Dumbledore and my friends; it’s not like when Dumbledore beat Grindlewald.”

Lily leaned forward, hope creeping into her face. Her breaths were fast and heavy. “Surely if you’ve done it once-”

“There are some major differences between my world and this one; it’s not a simple case of retracing my steps.”

“Oh,” she said.

She seemed so crushed, so defeated, that Harry said, “But I’m going to give the Order all the help I can.”

Another awkward silence descended between them, and Lily stared over his shoulder, her eyes hollow and distant. She had come to him to remind herself of James, the way she had hungrily studied his face when she entered told him that much, but Harry was not sure how to broach the subject, or whether to do it at all.

Harry met Lily’s gaze and could see in her eyes that she desperately wished he was James or her baby. It was disconcerting, but he did not break eye contact, she needed this to recover.

“Have you ever felt you made one great mistake, one that ruined your entire life?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “many, but in the end they worked themselves out, I suppose. Why?”

Lily looked down at her glass. “No, forget it, sorry, I’m being silly. I keep mistaking...I mean, you were raised magically so it’d be nonsense, anyway...”

“I wasn’t raised magically.”

Lily, in mid-sip, snorted out her drink and her laughs became a coughing fit. “Please don’t humour me, how could you _not_ have been raised magically? I mean, there’s Sirius for one...”

“In Azkaban,” said Harry, “for murdering thirteen Muggles, set up by none other than Peter Pettigrew.”

Lily’s mouth formed a small ‘o’. “Remus?”

“A werewolf.”

“Of course, Umbridge and that _horrid_ decree. Frank and Alice?”

Harry sighed. “Dear Bellatrix and her gang tortured them to insanity shortly after Halloween.”

Horror-struck, Lily whispered, “And Dumbledore?”

“I told you three days ago that your sacrifice protected me, remember?” Lily nodded. “Well, your protection extended to anyone related to you as well. In other words, none those vengeance-seeking Death Eaters could reach me if I was with someone related to you.”

“No...”

“I grew up with Aunt Petunia and her husband, blissfully unaware that magic existed.”

“Goodness...I’m so sorry...”

“No point crying over spilt milk; I’m still here and relatively undamaged, after all. I even visit Petunia’s son, Dudley, and his girlfriend from time to time. He still clutches his bum every time I draw my wand – it’s hilarious.” Noticing Lily’s puzzlement, Harry explained the incident with Hagrid and his botched transfiguration. He was pleased to see Lily smile for the first time; it softened her features and made her look as pretty as the photos Harry had of her.

“Anyway, that’s my roundabout way of saying that I’ll understand whatever you have to say.”

Lily fidgeted with her glass, then said, “Have you ever felt that opening your Hogwarts letter was the worst mistake you ever made?”

“Yes,” said Harry, “quite a few times. There were long periods where I felt so out of love with Hogwarts and the magical world that I wanted, more than anything else, to be rid of it. If I didn’t have the Dursleys waiting for me in the Muggle world, I’m quite sure I would’ve acted on it.”

She placed the glass of Butterbeer on the bedside table. “I’m sick of this war, Harry. I’m sick of preparing funeral speeches, I’m sick of this writhing, torturous despair, I’m sick of...” She trailed off and put her head in her hands.

Harry laid a sympathetic hand on her knee. “You’ve got to have hope in times like these. Voldemort’s goals are to enslave Muggles – everyone is affected by this war. If you had rejected the wizarding world, it would have lost a damn good witch and the fight against Voldemort would be a whole lot weaker than it is now. You lost your husband and only child, and I may never know what that feels like. But what I do know is that people look up to you. Throughout my time at Hogwarts, everyone who knew you told me what a great witch you were – they saw you as an integral part of the war. What I learnt the hard way is that we’ve got to be strong for those around us and never let lose the will to fight for what we believe in, because if we do that, Voldemort’s won already.”

"You're right," whispered Lily. "I can't let them die for nothing. I'll keep fighting...for them, it's the least they deserve. Thank you, Harry."

"Any time."

"And I'm sorry about Petunia."

"You've got nothing to be sorry about."

"I'd better go; Poppy wants to do some final checks on me."

"I'm surprised she let you go before doing it."

They shared a small smile as Lily rose from the bed and walked to the door. She stopped at the doorway and Harry went over to her. “Thank you, Harry, for everything.”

“You’re welcome...Lily. I suspect we’ll see each other very soon.”

“Yes, I hope so.”

She hesitated for a moment, then hugged Harry briefly. The embrace felt so much like one of Hermione’s that he was a little surprised that the hair brushing against his ear was straight and red, rather than bushy brown. She pulled away, shared one last smile with him and disappeared down the corridor.

Harry frowned as he retreated back into his room and could not help but be a little annoyed at himself. The key to getting back, emotionally, was to have no ties to sever, yet he already felt rather fond of Lily. He knew it was best to never see her again...but he could not bring himself to do that. If only Robards could see him now...

Harry glanced down at his watch: twelve-ten. He cursed; his chat with Lily had felt like five minutes, not an hour and a half. He put his hand down his top and grasped the warm locket that was always against his chest. He was quite proud of it; contrary to what he had told Ginny, he had developed it with Hermione, working from the Auror Department’s standard emergency Portkey. It had taken some weeks to make sure it was tied to _need_ rather than just the activation word, but to Harry, it was worth it. Now, when he really wanted to see her and said her name, it would take him to her, as hers would come to him.

“Ginny,” whispered Harry.

He appeared on the ground floor of the Shrieking Shack. Ginny, who looked a little worse for wear, sighed in relief. Harry went to her and they kissed hungrily, as though it was the last kiss they would ever share. He slipped his hands down her back and rested them on her firm buttocks. He opened his eyes and met her hazel ones. They stared at one another, and Harry pulled her closer towards him, so that her heaving chest was pressed against his and they shared each other’s warmth. He moved his hands up again and, underneath her robes, felt for her bra strap.

Ginny broke the kiss and pulled away. “Harry,” she breathed, “not here.”

Harry glanced down at the broken glass, countless splinters, blood and fur across the floor. “Yes,” he said, “you’re probably right. Tell me everything, Gin.”

He conjured a sofa roughly based on theirs at home. The colour was slightly off, but Harry was relatively happy with it. He sat at one end, and Ginny adopted her customary position, her head resting on his shoulder and her legs draped across the remainder of the couch.

“I went to Grimmauld Place first,” she said, “but it’s completely abandoned. There are some pretty nasty traps there, too – I’ll just say I’m glad I’m not a Muggle-born and leave it at that. I came back to Godric’s Hollow next. Guess who I saw?”

“Who?”

“Mad-Eye! It was a bit of a shock, let me tell you, but I Apparated out before he saw me. I tried all the usual places next; the Three Broomsticks, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade but nobody had seen him for days. I checked absolutely everywhere a wizard could possibly go, including wizarding mini-villages, and had no luck. It’s almost like he’s dropped from the face of the earth.”

Harry frowned. “As long as he’s not hunting Wormtail, then we don’t need to be worried.” He glanced down at Ginny and noticed the sadness in her face, sadness failing to find Sirius could not have brought about. “Did you go to the Burrow, Gin?”

Ginny craned her head up at him before relaxing it again. “You know me too well, Scarface.”

Harry smiled. Ever since he had shown her the wonders of video, she had developed an unhealthy obsession for Muggle film very similar to Mr Weasley’s obsession with Muggle technology. They had watched ‘Scarface’ three years ago and, ever since, she had begun calling him ‘Scarface’ when she wanted to annoy him.

“ _His eyes are as green as a fresh-pickled toad_...”

Ginny slapped him lightly. “I was eleven! But, then again, who _didn’t_ fall for the _Chosen One_?”

Harry sniggered. “You’re not dodging my question, young lady.”

“Yeah, I went.” He could feel her stiffen. “They thought...they thought I was a Death Eater – they didn’t even know who I was!”

“I think I know why,” said Harry quietly. He explained Dumbledore’s theory to her, and what had happened at Godric’s Hollow. He told her about the veil, and how it was hidden and that Voldemort was searching for it.

“Great,” said Ginny, “this is just what we need. Another bloody struggle against You-Know-Who.”

“We don’t have to be involved if we don’t want to. Our priority is getting back to our world.”

“Oh come on, Harry, this time next week, you’ll want to be at the centre of the war, you mark my words. But we’ve got to be careful – if what Professor Dumbledore said is true, and it probably is, then this isn’t our fight. This world, Harry...it’s weird. I don’t know what it is, but it’s uncomfortable as hell.”

“I know what you mean; there’s no such thing as Horcruxes, can you believe?”

“Why’s Dumbledore faffing about, then?”

“Apparently, Voldemort hardly ever shows his face.”

“What?”

“But thinking about it, how many times was Voldemort seen in the last war? If it weren’t for me and the Prophecy, I wonder if we ever would have seen him.”

“So you think it’s going to be one big game of hide-and-seek?” The image of Dumbledore counting to ten and Voldemort frantically searching for a hiding place sent Harry into peals of laughter. “If you’re quite ready,” said Ginny in her Dumbledore voice, “I shall look for you now.”

“You’ll never find me, you Muggle-loving fool!” hissed Harry.

Harry laughed until his sides felt like they would burst; Ginny’s head shook with silent laughter. It died away as suddenly as it came and they sat in silence for a while.

“I promise Lily I’d help the Order,” said Harry, regretting now more than ever that he had made the pledge.

“I thought you would,” said Ginny with a sigh.

“How about we help them until we find the scrolls to the veil? We can go back once we’ve found them.”

“Let’s hope we can.”


End file.
